Digital War: Campaign Two
by Trinity Dragon
Summary: Following events beyond his control, a young man is thrust into the center of another world's conflict. In this Digital World, he must learn to control his new abilities, all while trying to discover the secrets of his own dark origins and fighting against an Enemy the likes of which no one had ever dreamed of before. [Revisions in Progress]
1. Part One: Chapter I

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter I]

By T. D. Larson

The day was lost to him. Michael felt it as soon as he woke that morning, keenly aware, also, of a ferocious, splitting headache. Without exception, morning after morning passed this way without any deviation that might have caused Michael Delancy to take pause. He would wake, shake off his covers and curse the metallic beeping of his alarm clock. He would plod down to the small kitchen where his father often sat waiting, sipping an oversized mug of coffee, offering what was left in the carafe to his son. No thanks, he would say, and pour himself a glass of milk.

Then he would try to wake up.

Only one artery led traffic into the small town where he lived. It was devoid of action, adventure, or any newsworthy event at all. Sure, sometimes the occasional third-party politician would come charging into town, making speeches. But even that momentary excitement was mediocre. So, Michael had spent seventeen years in such dull conditions.

It was with great effort that he managed to get up at all that morning. The recent few days had seen to his utter lack of energy, and barely any strength at all. He felt restless, and tossed and turned at night, dreaming vivid dreams that he could never remember. This morning, he thought he might have remembered something vaguely resembling dragons.

He shook off his covers and nearly tore the switch off his alarm, trying to shut off the irking beeps. His head pounded, like deafening drums, threatening to explode his skull. Still, he dutifully plodded down to the kitchen, where his father sat sipping coffee. The man glanced up, and then frowned at his son.

"You look terrible," he said. Michael waved him off dismissively. Of course he _looked_ terrible; he felt terrible. "You should have some coffee. It'll perk you right up," Mr. Delancy chuckled at his own pun. "There's still some in the pot."

There was always some in the pot. "No thanks," Michael replied, and poured himself a cup of milk. The creamy liquid soothed his parched mouth and throat, and he felt his headache lessen a little. That was all he needed: a smidgen of food. There was nothing more wrong with him than stress. Though, what stress was affecting him was a question he could not answer. He sighed and filled a bowl with cold cereal and more milk. He would survive.

So this morning passed again. At approximately a quarter of an hour past seven, he caught the bus to his school, an inane little building of tan stucco and red brick. He exited with the rest of the shuffling students into pale morning-light, diffused by ominous gray clouds and a trifle bit of rain. The human looked up to the sky, thinking he might catch a bolt of lightning. Only dark skies greeted him, and his headache returned sharply.

* * *

Isaac Marx greeted his friends warmly on the cold day. It was oddly chilly for September, even though fall was right around the corner. He felt charged, though—tingly even, as if a bolt of stray lightning were about to strike. Around every corner, possibilities waited, adventures poised on the brink of happening.

He, too, had grown up in the little town. He found it charming in its own way, and the summer festivals that preceded the new school year were a wonderful treat before diving back into textbooks and algebra. Not that he was not curious about the possibilities of leading a life away from his home, but he had never saw the need beyond going off to university the next year. Then he might have an adventure or two. But that was still a year off, and his mind was on more immediate matters.

Twelve o'clock had finally come around, bringing with it the solidarity of lunch. The commons were composed of a square block of building surrounded by windows on one side and an outer courtyard with a few stray benches and tables. Two more walls consisted of a lowered pit filled with lockers and an a la carte style lunch, with the remaining side opened as a series of double doors that led to the lobby and faculty offices. The inside bustled with students milling about tables and trying not to run into anyone.

Normally Isaac would have found his group by now, and would be chatting companionably with them about whatever various and strangely random topic they picked. He grabbed his lunch quickly and turned just in time to avoid having it thrown back in his face in a collision. He sighed in relief. That had been close.

It looked as if his friends had decided to meet somewhere other than the commons for lunch. That was typical, though. Many students decided to eat off campus. Maybe that was a good thing, he supposed. He still had the nagging feeling that something extraordinary was about to take place-like a train was about to come through and he was going to be under it.

He looked about for his companions one last time and spied instead the hunched over form of another student, intently trying to block out the world about him. How strange, he thought, recognizing the student. Michael Delancy was his name. They shared a few classes, but did not know each other beyond that. Michael was an athletic type, though he never went out for any of the teams. And he was reasonably intelligent, as far as Isaac was concerned, and the boy had a few friends of his own. So why was he alone, and why did it look as if he were in excruciating pain?

He tapped Michael's shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Michael gritted his teeth, trying not to scream at the merest touch. When the bell had rung for lunch, he had managed to tumble into a seat near the door to the commons. It had taken all his concentration to will himself not pass out from the pain. As soon as he had had exited his algebra class, his whole body had begun to burn and his vision swam.

"It burns…" he said softly, turning his eyes to the table again. He tried to sit up straight, and put his hands on the table. Even that simple movement made him recoil in pain. He stared at his hands for a moment, wondering if he was hallucinating.

Isaac found himself looking on in shock as well, as Michael's hands had turned a deep shade of red. Suddenly the teenager doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut and gasping for air. Michael fell out of the chair then, screaming incoherently. By now everyone in the commons had become aware of the uncharacteristic screeching breaking the monotony of an otherwise average day.

The rash on his hands had grown now to encompass his bare forearms, as well as his face and neck. But as Isaac continued to watch, he grew more and more horrified as claws began protruding out of his fingers and his face began to reshape itself into a short, boxy muzzle. He had heard of spontaneous combustion, freak drownings without any water, and even the hyper sensitivity that Michael had seemed to be experiencing earlier.

But this had him mystified. The students had congregated around the transforming teenager, gawking as his screams turned from unintelligible, but still human sounds, to garbled, disjointed growls. His clothes tore as his body changed more uniformly now, but still unbearably painful. He could see fear in Michael's now opened eyes, and hear it in his voice; it reflected in the crowd around him. Isaac looked on, fearful not for himself, but for whatever was happening to his classmate.

"It brrrnghssss..." Michael growled, hissing the s. His tail twitched and he clenched his fists, feeling for the first time claws unsheathing. The room spun around him, hundreds of faces twisted in horror, whispering to one another, as if he were some sort of monster. Slowly it coalesced into a more solid form. Hundreds of faces became merely dozens, and gradually the burning subsided.

* * *

No one had seen him approach. The dozens of humans had their attentions focused solely on the Enemy's offspring-the creature who had so casually taken on the Digital World's beloved hero and turned his form into a cruel parody. All of the Digital World's surveillance had also been focused on this puny excuse for a Digimon, all to pinpoint his location on Earth. All for the one chance to destroy it before he could do _anyone_ any harm.

Cotramon growled under his breath. He crouched in the shadows, ready to pounce as soon as he could. He may only have been a rookie Digimon, but he was more than a match for someone with only seconds of experience. He had heard the gibberish emitted by the Enemy's clone, the horrible noise it made. For a moment he had reconsidered his commission. Sheer strength might overwhelm him.

Then common sense broke through the confusion, and his sense of duty reasserted itself. Of course Cotramon would fight, and win. He had fought in the Liberation War, had been at the siege of Anshar. He had been witness to wanton destruction and genocide. And he could not-would not-let it happen again.

Ah ha! The moment had presented itself at last. The cluster of humans had parted, and the demon child was in clear view of him, trying to rise to his feat. No doubt he would attack as soon as he steadied himself. Cotramon charged forward, claws bared. "_Blazing Fire!"_ A black jet of flame arched from his muzzle, leaping for the newly transformed Digimon.

The stream of flame hit its mark, searing Michael and renewing the burning sensation he had just overcame. The other humans jumped back, startled and then, upon seeing the green, reptilian Digimon, fled in full-blown panic. Michael screamed again, dropping to one knee, gasping as he caught sight of the dark green form of his opponent.

Cotramon stood to his full height, still a head shorter than Michael. He was a muscular Digimon, with a compact frame that belied his real strength. His tail lashed angrily behind him as he stared with dark, menacing eyes at his foe.

"You!" he shouted, pointing a single claw toward Michael. "Stand and fight me. The son of the Black Diamond will not deprive me of my honor." His jaw snapped shut, emphasized with a spark of black flame.

Isaac watched the exchange intently, wondering what this bizarre creature wanted with his classmate. Michael had always been odd, never working well in teams. He was the go-it-alone sort-the kind that looked out the window for better days ahead, daydreaming instead of having his mind on the present. But he had always been _human_.

The student tried to make sense of what was going on. A monster, a dragon even, had appeared out of nowhere to terrorize his school. But that was not quite right. He was intently set on fighting Michael. But now, instead of a human opponent, this other creature faced a red-scaled wiry form with fiery red eyes. He stood on two legs, just as the other did, hunched over slightly on three-toed claws, using a trunk-like tail for balance.

But there were still some obviously human qualities about him. Thankfully, for Isaac had a sneaking suspicion that Michael was unaware how badly damaged his clothing was, enough rags still held tightly enough to him to prevent modesty from becoming an issue.

Michael was not, in fact, aware of anything. He struggled to make sense of his situation. The past few days he had felt exhausted and fatigued, like something was sapping all his energy. This morning, he was running on empty, and only just managed to stay awake in his morning classes.

Then all hell had broken loose. All he remembered was a burning, agonizing feeling, radiating from his stomach, spreading across his entire body. He had felt dizzy, and fell, blacking out until he saw one of his classmates-he could not quite place the name-standing over him, worried for some reason.

He had tried to rise to his feet, but a sudden lance of flame had scorched his hands again. The source, and he looked in horror, was a monster, glaring daggers at him. Stand and fight, it had said. Fight! Michael took a step back. He was no fighter. Sure he was fit enough to be trouble if he ever did start something, but he never _did_ start anything.

"I don't want to fight..." he said weakly, unable to produce any more than a bare whisper. He watched the other teenagers flee, terrified of the oncoming wrath. He wanted to run with them, get away. This monster was out for _him_ and he had not a clue why. "I don't want to fight!" he said more loudly.

Cotramon took a step forward, seeing his enemy back away. He could sense the fear in him. "You lie!" Ha! As if such petty tricks would work on him. Cotramon had been trained for years for this task. He was unique, a gift from the Digimon Emperor himself. Only he had won the honor of destroying this child before he could digivolve. "You and your father will die," he said resolutely.

His father? Michael suddenly glimpsed his father, a fair skinned man with a mop of graying hair, sweeping sawdust off the floor at the mill. What did _he _have to do with anything? "What are you talking about? Leave my family out of this!" He shook the thought from his head, trying not to think of this creature attacking his parents.

"Don't feign ignorance with me," the green Digimon retorted. He knew better. And now he was close enough. "Your _family_ is responsible for the wholesale destruction of my world! _Phantom Claw!_" He leapt for Michael, swiping with dark arcs of energy from his claws.

Michael rolled out of the way, watching the table behind him splinter and its metal base melt into slag. How did he do that? What kind of monster was this? He watched as the one remaining human also managed to dive out of the way. Why had he not run yet? "Run!" he beckoned, waving Isaac away. "Get out of here!" and he gestured to the burning remnants of the table.

"You will fight me!" Cotramon roared, gearing up for another leaping strike. "_Phantom Claw!_" He hurled himself at Michael, backed against the wall. This was it, the finishing blow. All of the warnings and training he endured had made this seem like it would be a fight for his life. But so far, the enemy had not even attempted to fight back.

"_Dynamight Rush!_" Michael sprang from his position and twisted in the air, bringing down the full force of his muscular tail onto Cotramon's unprotected face. There was a deafening sound, like a peal of thunder, that knocked away the remaining furnishings and sent the opposing Digimon flying.

What was that? he wondered, landing on his feet. The windows at the farm end of the room overlooking the courtyard had shattered, and the monster that had attacked him was picking himself up out of a heap of debris. Isaac-that was his name-stared at him incredulously, not believing what he had seen either.

What _was_ that! How had he leapt so high? It had been out of instinct. Had he done nothing, Michael would have been rent apart. "What do you want with me? What have I done?" He saw the monster glance at him, then charge forward, throwing another jet of flame his way. He dived to the left, toward the back of the commons and careened into the lunch cart.

Isaac got to his feet and tested his ankle. It was not sprained, and he thanked his maker for it. He could still walk, and from the sight of the ensuing battle, he might need to run. He heard MIchael shout to him to get away, and then heard lightning strike. It sent him flying into the locker pit and he skidded to a stop at the end of one row.

How could he leave though? Michael was outclassed-this he could tell from the rapid movements of his adversary. The other monster charged Michael again, who dodged again, only to find himself face first in a pot of corn chowder. He was a loner, but never had Isaac seen him pick a fight. He was the peaceable type.

Isaac was the same way, although much more extroverted. He had rarely fought with anyone, let alone a monster. But he had to do something. He could see flames licking at the other's muzzle, ready to spew yet more black fire. Suddenly Isaac made up his mind, grabbing the nearest object to him.

He took the chair and launched himself at the charging dragon, interposing himself between the two opponents and bringing his makeshift weapon down hard across the dragon's skull. There was a deafening crack as the chair split in two the dragon stumbled and fell forward, sputtering and spitting blood.

"What the devil is wrong with you?" Isaac demanded.

Cotramon turned to look at the human and wiped the blood from his mouth. What was wrong with him? This interloper just stopped him from saving the world. "I'm doing my duty, human. Don't interfere again."

"Duty?" Isaac scoffed. He looked at Michael, his transformed body burned and bruised, covered in soiled food. "He doesn't want to fight you! He said so himself." He tried to save Isaac-tried to convince him to run. Now the human was glad he stayed. "He's never done anything to warrant that kind of attack."

It was all a trick. Cotramon knew it-he had to convince this human, otherwise the collateral damage would be too great. Even for him. "He's not human. You can see that. He's an abomination... the son of the most reviled enemy of my kind! We fought to seal him away forever and now _this-_" and he spat the word with as much venom as possible-"is threatening to destroy my world again!"

"Look at him, though," Isaac pleaded. He knew nothing about ancient enemies and wars fought long ago-at least nothing about otherworldly wars. "He's a daydreamer, not a fighter. He's never lifted his hand against anyone, except in self defense at this very moment."

Michael had managed to collect himself once again. He was cut badly across his arm and his body ached terribly from the force of the collision. But he understood the conversation. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even know what you-what _I_-am! I don't want to fight." He pulled a strand of stray noodle from behind his head.

He limped forward. His legs also sported long gashes, though they were not deep. He looked pathetic, and Cotramon could not dispute that. The Digimon shook his head. Of course this was a trick-it had to be. The Enemy was cunning, so it would be with his offspring. The human still stood in his way, though. And he still wielded a large fragment of that chair.

Was it possible, he wondered. Could the hybrid be telling the truth? He certainly doesn't fight like a Digimon, Cotramon thought to himself. And its confusion seemed genuine. The Enemy had never known what happened to his machine. The clone-works lay dormant for years, collecting dust and its fair share of bugs. And _he_, the Digimon cast a sidelong glance at Michael, did not attack, even though he would have had the advantage.

Cotramon had never been a true soldier. In fact, he had been in the medical corps during the war. He had made life and death decisions for wounded fighters, he could do it now. He was intelligent, wise for his age-or so the Emperor had told him. Now that he stopped to think, nothing here made any sense at all.

The glaring human held tightly to his weapon, poised to strike if the Digimon so much as twitched. He stood between the two, a life saver by the very definition of the word. Michael had been fatigued, worn down-and had just come out of what Isaac would guess was the most traumatic experience of the young man's life.

"Look at him," the human directed. "_Look_ at him. He's helpless. He doesn't know up from down right now and you're ready to murder him." The monster looked, his storming, furious eyes abating. Isaac sighed in relief: it looked as if he was reaching him. He did not know the circumstances, nor did he even really know Michael-only what he had observed in passing.

He was unremarkable, quiet, and definitely not a the son of anyone's enemy. This could pass as a misunderstanding, he decided. The monster looked at him now, then the piece of hard plastic he held. Isaac dropped the remnant chair and offered his hand. "I'm Isaac Marx. That's Michael Delancy. And, for the most part, we're humans."

Cotramon took the offer, seeing the fight was over. How was he going to explain this one? Not only had he failed in his objective, but he now had serious misgivings about the information he had been given. The Emperor might understand. But at the advisory of his council, he might still act rashly. And then there was the fact that he had been bested by a human.

As he stood and dusted shattered tile and dust from his scales, he introduced himself. "I am Cotramon, clan Koromon. I am a Digimon." Isaac's back was turned to him, helping the one known as Michael to an upright chair. He hardly paid attention, as he was inspecting the various cuts over the other's body.

"Is that what I am?" Michael asked, looking over Isaac's shoulder, wincing.

Cotramon came toward them, pulling a small box from a pouch on his belt, which had remarkably remained intact. "Move over," he said, nudging Isaac out of the way. "I'm trained in medicine." Out of the box he pulled clean bandages and disinfectant and began to apply it liberally over each gash. "And yes, sort of. We are digital monsters from another world."

"Digital?" Isaac remarked. "As in computer data?"

"Only partially," the Digimon explained as he tied a bandage taut "Our biology feeds off the electromagnetic radiation from your computer networks." He pulled another bandage from his pouch and tended to the wound on Michael's arm. "You," and he looked directly into Michael's fiery eyes, "are... unique." He finished with the bandage.

Michael's ears twitched. The sound of sirens in the distance, headed their way. The ruckus they caused had undoubtedly terrified residents in the surrounding homes. And with students and faculty running in panic from the scene, babbling on about monsters fighting, he could only surmise that the sirens were that of police cruisers.

Cotramon heard it as well, attention suddenly focused on something Isaac could not comprehend. He hastily stuffed his first aid kit back into the pouch at his side and took Michael by the arm and dragged him away. He cut through the hedges that surrounded the courtyard, grumbling at the two wayward humans to move quietly.

"Where are you taking us," Isaac whispered.

"I don't know," he answered. This was not the way he came in. The Digital Gate was at a fixed point, but they would have to cross the entire town to get there. He knew the layout and whereabouts well enough by now. He had stalked his target for some time before the opportunity to strike had presented itself.

"We'll have to lay low until I can get him to the Digital Gate," he informed the two, pausing at the other side of the hedge. He poked his head out tentatively, looking from left to right. The streets were crowded with people investigating the cacophony generated by their brief battle. The sirens approached in earnest now, and even the human heard them clearly.

Stealth was not Cotramon's primary skill either. His compact form made it easy for him to go unnoticed, but as for moving silently or hiding, his bulk was in his girth. He was built for strength, for fighting, not for sneaking around and trickery. And trying to do so in broad daylight with a second Digimon _and _a human in tow would not help matters. He retreated into the bushes.

"We can go to my place," Isaac said, catching a glimpse of a police cruiser parking. It would have to do. His parents would not be back until late. The two could wait until nightfall to sneak back to wherever it was they were going. And it would Cotramon proper time for an explanation. He turned, motioning for them to follow. Cotramon nodded, seeing it was opposite the crowd. He still held Michael tightly by the arm and dragged him through the brush.


	2. Part One: Chapter II

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter II]

By T. D. Larson

He still felt dazed and confused, like he were living in a dream. Michael let himself be pulled along without protest by the "Digimon." Cotramon was his attacker's name. Now he felt like a prisoner, and that strange Digimon was his armed guard. He acted like it too, casting wary glances at Michael every few minutes. His host, Isaac Marx, who had dived in at the last moment to save his life, offered him the use of his facilities to clean up properly after their brawl. Michael accepted readily, glad to get away from his warden.

He felt strange, unfamiliar, even, looking at himself in the mirror. He saw some of the same features, distorted and malformed now. His square jaw had been projected into a boxy muzzle and his hair had turned into a white mane. As a human, he had had eyes a shade of green that people found disconcerting. Now they were a bright, sparkling red, matching the newly formed scales that covered his body. He dried himself, wincing as the towel moved roughly over his bandaged cuts.

That fight… _Dynamite Rush_… the thought sent a thrill of energy through him. It was as if he had known how to do that his entire life, but never had the opportunity. He had always wondered about other worlds—where they were and what they might be like. An only child, his parents had catered to his interests without much thought. Fantasy, science fiction, anything that offered an escape from a world he hardly fit into.

The cloths provided to him by Isaac were a loose fit. Isaac was taller by a few inches, and larger around the chest and middle. Not to say the teen was overweight—just big. He had the build of someone who worked hard and heavy for a living. In contrast, Michael was leaner and shorter, possessed of strength that he rarely ever used.

Until now...

He stuffed his legs into the jeans. Claws now, instead of hands—he had claws. He unsheathed them and tore a hole in the back of the pants. Strange, he thought, that he should use them so naturally. It unnerved him. He was supposed to be human. He _was_ human! Martha and Eugene Delancy had raised him from birth. This was an experiment of some sort. A cruel joke. If he had been like this his whole life, how come no one knew but that _Digimon_?

He shoved his tail through the hole and then stuffed himself into an ill-fitting vest, growling. Growling? He was growling! No! He stopped himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He had to get his bearings. He was human.

Michael moaned in despair. He _was_ human. He felt in the core of his being. He had felt the changes coming for days. His vision had fluctuated, and his attention wandered constantly. Then there was the utter lack of energy. He slept poorly at night, dreaming of visions of otherworldly creatures, some of them—now that began to recollect—looked strikingly similar to what himself.

What about his family though? This Cotramon was going to take him back to the Digital World without even the allowance of saying good-bye to his parents. And that was the best scenario he could hope for? Cotramon had tried to kill him initially. Would other Digimon try to do the same? Would he be tried and executed for something he did not do?

Cotramon seemed rational, now that he had taken a second look at Michael. He only hoped that the other Digimon would be less inclement and more reasonable to outside explanations. Then again, he might have been on the extreme end of the spectrum. All that talk about duty and honor made him sound like a fanatic.

* * *

"He's not fully Digimon, sir," Cotramon said into a fist-sized device. Only he understood the garbled reply. Their language, grunts and growls and hisses, was as ancient as the Digital World. "And he refused to fight back…" he paused. "No! Of course I followed the mission parameters. He refused to fight me."

The radio remained silent for a moment and then an angry series of growls startled him. "I'm bringing him back to the Digital World. Boreamon should decide what to do with him." And he shut off with that, wishing that he had more sense and less temper. He could very well have killed the hybrid—someone who was completely unaware as to his past. He could not fault Michael for that. The boy had not even known what a Digimon was until today.

Not everyone on the Emperor's advisory council had approved of _him_ going after the hybrid. The Sovereign Council was made up of nine extremely powerful Digimon, and they were as wise as they were strong. Some, however, were not as easy to convince as others that he had been the right Digimon for the job.

Many months of hard work and effort had gone into making the decision. The Sovereignty wanted to test not only the physical prowess of participants, but also the mental acuity and the wisdom of each individual. In the end, he had won out, and received his prize. Not only was it the chance to do justice for his world and avenge the billions of lives lost to the Enemy, but it was a chance to use the Enemy's own machines against him.

After the war ended, the Sovereignty had become the ruling body of the Digital World, until an heir to the Empire was found. They confiscated much of what remained of the Black Diamond's weapons and technology, including his most infamous machine: the Clone-Works. His top general, Millenniumon had designed it as a means to create vast numbers of super-Digimon soldiers, without souls or conscious awareness.

They would only take orders from the Enemy. And what an enemy he was… Cotramon shuddered. Ruthless, diabolical, and ingenious, he was also evil to the core. The combination made him deadly and cunning, and so reviled that even his real name became lost to legend. He was a level beyond mega as well, impossibly strong. Not even the Sovereignty could destroy him. They could only banish him, and hope that the seal that kept him lock away would hold.

In the end, after they had dealt with him, the Sovereignty had ordered a full study of the Clone-Works. They found it had used his genetic code as a template, or so Cotramon had been told. Rather than use it, they put it under lock and key, until the Emperor came to power. Then he ordered it refurbished and put to use, using the genetic templates of the ten strongest Digimon they could find.

It backfired though. The templates fused with the Enemy's code and the machine malfunctioned. Somehow, it distorted reality enough to spew the genetic mishmash into the human world where it bonded with the human Michael Delancy. That was speculation, though. The Sovereignty and the Emperor had assumed that that was the intention of the machine. They thought the resulting creature would recognize its purpose immediately and move inexorably to that end. And anything remotely connected to the Black Diamond had to be destroyed immediately.

Now that he looked back on it, he wondered why they thought that. The machine had obviously intended to make a full-blooded Digimon, not a hybrid. Could this Michael even digivolve if he needed to? Not that the boy was weak. Quite the contrary, Cotramon thought, remembering the hit he had taken.

How could he have made such a mistake, though? He still did not like the idea of the Enemy's offspring running around. A Digimon with that kind of power, and no loyalties to either the Empire or the Enemy could be dangerous. He sighed once. Michael had been out of sight for a while hour now, and it got him feeling antsy. How long did it take for a human to wash up? Though, he thought in retrospect, he had done a number on him.

He relaxed a bit and slumped down into a chair, Isaac staring at him from across the room. The Digimon wondered briefly how long he had been lost in thought, and how long that Isaac had been watching him. _That_ human had given him a good thumping as well. He rubbed a sore spot on the top of his head, remembering with astounding clarity the righteous indignation with which he had spoken.

"The Sovereignty wishes to test him," he stated. Isaac nodded, only half understanding. "They are the primary advisory council to our Emperor, who also wishes to see the… I mean Michael." He had to remind himself that Michael was not, in fact, his enemy… at least as far as he knew.

"I gathered they weren't happy at the outcome," the human said. The conversation had been unintelligible to him, but the gesticulation on Cotramon's part had clued him in to the nature of it. The Digimon had sagged into the recliner, not bothering to examine the sandwich he had been offered. "You look like you could use someone to talk to."

How could a human understand the problem? He cocked an eye-ridge at Isaac and snorted somewhat contemptuously at the notion. The internal politics of the Digital World far surpassed anything a human could know, especially one of such young age. Cotramon had had to learn the politics the hard way, playing to one authority to sow discord among others. He was of a young age as well, and had only been engaged in the sordid pastime for a few years. But sometimes he still felt as if he carried an unpleasant stink about him.

He did not feel like explaining. "Your interference in our affairs has put a mark on you as well, Isaac," the Digimon remarked. "In addition to Michael, they want an explanation from you. I've been _requested_—" he emphasized the word with a roll of his eyes—"that I bring you back to the Digital World with us."

Interference? In "our" affairs, he had said. Isaac clinched his fists. After he had busted up the school cafeteria, nearly incinerated one of his classmates and then all but ordered him to follow him to another dimension, he had the gall to blame Isaac for his problem? Maybe he should have kept that chair handy. It looked as Isaac might need it again, if only to beat some sense into his guest.

"Listen," and he leaned forward, glaring. "Your problem was caused by you not stopping to think before you attacked, not by me stepping in." He was an idealist at heart, and it had prompted him to action. "As for an explanation: I don't have to justify myself to you or your emperor. In fact, I'd say you owe _us_ a pretty darned good explanation."

"Correction: I would say he owes _me_ a pretty damned good explanation." In point of fact, both of them could stand to justify themselves in his opinion. Michael had finished dressing and ambled out to the living room, catching the last snippets of conversation. He wore a solemn expression, reminiscent of one resigned to his fate. "Thanks for the clothes, by the way." He nodded to Isaac. "I hope you don't want them back…" and he gestured to the hole where his tail stuck through.

The human nodded his assent. "It's okay."

He stumbled once on his way to the sofa on the opposite side of the room, and then took a seat a space over from Isaac, draping his caudal appendage over the arm. He was not used to the weight throwing off his balance. Cotramon stared at him, a little less warily than he had been. Michael was thankful for that. The last thing he needed was a _monster_ thinking he was weird.

The three of them sat in awkward silence for several minutes, none of them wanting to ask the obvious question of Why. What sort of rationale had any of them? Despite Cotramon's initial protestations of duty, honor and the saving of his race from ultimate destruction, he had no justification. And even he now had misgivings on that point. Michael was right. He did owe at him at least that much, however dubious his rationale had been.

"You look like someone I once knew," the Digimon said at length. "A great warrior. He was called Pyromon, and he saved many lives before he died. No one knew what you would look like until you transformed."

Pyromon? Fire-monster, Michael reasoned, looking down at his hands again. The soft diamond-shaped scales felt as supple as his old skin had been. They took on a lighter coloration around his chest and on the palms of his hands—er… claws, he decided. It was better to call them what they were.

"When the Emperor came to power, it was after an explosion in one of our cities," the Digimon continued. "The Enemy—or as some call him, the Black Diamond—claimed responsibility for the destruction. We had fought for years to liberate ourselves from him, and when we did, we sealed him away in a world all his own, as pitch black as he was. Before that, he had devised a plan to clone himself."

He launched into the lesson, a brief historical recounting of the Clone-Works and its intended purpose, and the Emperor's repurposed vision of it. "We wanted someone who could stand up and fight him if we needed. But machine malfunctioned, and the result was a half-clone using both genetic templates. You're the result."

Michael studied the Digimon in earnest. His head sagged and his eyes were downcast. He seemed to genuinely regret the events of that afternoon. "So you thought, because I'm his 'clone,' I would be like him?" Cotramon nodded. "Did you ever stop to consider that Pyromon's DNA and the genes I got from my human parents would play a part in my disposition?"

"More than that, what about his upbringing?" Isaac interjected.

The half-Digimon glanced at him and smiled wanly. It was a good point. His parents, while average, nevertheless had raised him well enough. Michael never considered himself to be morally superior to anyone. Virtue was never his strong suit, and he was not above some vices either. But he still tried to live by what he considered to be good values. And it was not that he was a true pacifist—he just could not see the point of expending that effort.

He was supposed to be some sort of super-soldier, though. Michael certainly did not feel super—he was no warrior. He had no martial skills. Maybe, if he put his mind to it, he could fight, but that was unlikely. He was merely an average human being. Maybe that was part of the problem; maybe it was because he was not, in actuality, human that caused him to be merely ordinary?

"No one stopped to consider that," Cotramon said uneasily. "No one… But instead of the weapon we were hoping for, we got you. And it made them scared. Imagine someone as powerful as the Enemy, with no loyalties at all. A loose cannon." Here he looked up at the other two. "Digimon do not scare easily. They thought their mistake might come back to haunt them, so I was sent to correct that mistake."

So there it was. He was a mistake. Michael had never felt quite right at home, or around his peers. He had a few friends, but no one especially close. How could he explain this feeling of unease he got around others? It was not nervousness, so to speak, but a general misgiving that there was something fundamentally different about him.

Now he knew what it was.

He was a Digimon, or at least half-Digimon: a fluke. He wondered if the Digimon would treat him as such? Certainly this Emperor and his council would not be inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Then again, what example would he be if he did not give them the same courtesy? He had to see it from their point of view.

* * *

"He's bringing it back?" A four-legged form sat on his haunches before the tele-screen. Qinglongmon had thrown open the communications networks immediately after speaking to their agent in the Human World. The dragon fumed over the screen, ready to challenge anyone who disagreed. Baihumon considered letting the matter lie, then sighed.

"We chose Cotramon because he proved to be the most insightful candidate," he said, drawing assents from several of the other council members. It had been a close decision, though. Out of the nine of them, three had voted against sending that particular Digimon. They had wanted someone stronger, more brash, that would leave no trace of the hybrid.

Qinglongmon glared at him through narrow eyes, his digi-orbs glowing intensely with immutable rage. "_We_ did not. As I recall, VictoryGreymon, Rosemon and myself objected very sternly, and with good reason, to that decision. The Emperor sided with you out of caution."

Xuanwumon nodded one of his heads, then opened the other head's mouth and spoke. "No one sought to undermine your opinion. We agreed to vote on the matter, and bring our recommendation to Boreamon based on the outcome."

In any case, Baihumon thought, dragging out this conference would not help matters any. The fact of the matter was that Cotramon was, indeed, bringing this hybrid back with him. And the human who interfered also warranted investigation. "I propose a hearing," he said at length, drawing the attention of two arguing parties. "The three of them will appear before the council, and we will determine then what the next course of action will be."

"One more objection then?" MetalSeadramon asked as Qinlongmon began to protest. "We will send armed escorts to the Digital Gate to meet them. I will choose from among the Imperial Guard the finest warriors."

That was only prudent, Baihumon decided. "If anything should go wrong, the hybrid will not get far. Will that be enough to satisfy you, Quinglongmon? Or shall we cage him like a wild animal?" Much to his annoyance, the serpentine Digimon looked to be considering it. "Shall I remind you that you are bound to our laws, and that he is presumed innocent until otherwise found guilty?"

"I am well aware of the law," Qinglongmon snapped. "So be it," then. His corner of the screen faded to black, and the others did afterwards, one by one until the entire tele-screen was blank. The exchange left him uneasy. Qinglongmon and his cohorts could cause trouble. Even by leaking the information, he could cause mass riots.

For his part, Baihumon was curious of the stranger. He had sided with caution, deciding that the best way to avert any problem was to remove it as quickly as possible. On that point, he and Qinglongmon had agreed whole-heartedly. But he had chosen to send a Digimon who possessed a creative mind, which would gather the relevant information before making a decision. The problem in question would be removed. But how it would be dealt with had been the issue to discuss. Now that things were proceeding this quickly, he was glad of his decision. His vote had been vindicated.

The Enemy would be upon them soon. All of them knew it. But while some looked at strangers with hostility, as more enemies, he had thought to look at potential allies instead. If this hybrid was not, in fact, a monster like his father, then perhaps he could be persuaded to join the Empire's cause? He felt a twinge of hope.

He could not speak for the council though. Not until they had confirmed or debunked his theories. So he would have to bide his time, and wait for Cotramon and the other two. A human and a half-human, and a Digimon… perchance that was a portent in itself? He hoped so.


	3. Part One: Chapter III

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter III]

By T. D. Larson

Night had fallen at long last. The past few hours had gone on in silence, until Isaac had decided to turn on the television. The local news had broken the story of measured destruction at an area high school earlier that day. "Around the noon hour, students were just beginning to enjoy their lunch," the broadcaster said, eyes solemn, "when an unexpected explosion rocked the building. Police say it was likely a gas explosion."

The three looked at each other, then back to the broadcast, which had switched to a prerecorded tape. A blond-haired reporter in a light yellow jacket held a microphone tightly while police were busy cordoning off the area. Cherry lights flashed, alternating with the blue that marked police cruisers, lending an urgent feel to the tape, and a light rain had begun to fall. "As you can see behind me, the building is in fair shape, but police aren't taking any chances. Until a fire-marshal can inspect the building, it's being closed to everyone.

"Reports have come in of two missing teenagers, but no names have been released to us yet. Students are also going on about strange sightings of monsters fighting each other, claiming that as the cause of the destruction." The tape ended and the screen flitted back to the broadcaster, who turned to face the camera.

"It's likely that a toxic buildup of gas created a mass hallucination, experts say." The anchorman shuffled some papers in front of him dramatically. "They also say the explosion could have been much worse. The two missing students have still not been identified yet, but our thoughts go out to the families of the missing," he said, finishing his report. Then, as if nothing at all had happened, he smiled and his eyes lit up, moving on to a happier story.

Isaac switched of the television at that point. "You're both hallucinations," he grinned, trying to inject some humor into an otherwise awkward silence. No one laughed. "At least you're not going to be hunted down," he said to Cotramon. "If they don't believe you exist, they won't be looking for you if you return from the Digital World."

"When we return," he corrected. He looked out the window and saw that it was sufficiently dark to move about freely. His dark colored scales would blend in nicely with the underbrush and shrubs that lined many of the residential areas. Michael might be more of a problem, and he was unused to having a tail, though with practice he had achieved a modicum of proficiency at moving upright.

"Right…" the human trailed off. He wondered if he should tell his parents. They would undoubtedly worry about him if he were gone too long. And if he decided not to, what excuse could he come up with on such short notice? Staying the weekend at a friend's place? No, he decided. "How long do you suppose we'll be gone? I have to tell my parents something."

And speaking of that, what would Michael say to his parents? Did they know he was half-Digimon? Doubtful, he thought. He looked over at the hybrid, who was currently lost in the same train of thought as he. He had to tell them something. The mention of two students disappearing on the News was bad enough. But when their parents discovered _them_ missing, it would send them headlong into panic.

Michael looked down at his feet. He did not want to see his parents—not like this. Not when he was a monster. He wanted to look at them through human eyes. But Isaac was right. He did need to tell them something; though lying to them was not high on his to-do list. He would also need his own clothes. Isaac was kind to let him borrow a pair of pants, but he did not relish the thought of wearing the saggy jeans any longer than he had to.

That was not to mention his tail, which had become stiff with lack of movement. He noticed Cotramon shift positions several times, swishing his tail about lazily. He thought he would do the same and stood up, letting it hang loosely out the back of his pants before it began moving—and he thought strangely—of its own accord.

"I'll have to go home, too," he said. The others looked at him questioningly. "If only to gather some personal belongings. I have the feeling that I might not be back for a long time…" He felt certain of that. His parents were of the conservative lot, not inclined to take change well, let alone change of such a drastic nature. And besides that, he was barely recognizable as his old self. How would he prove his identity?

He, of course, knew his social security number by heart—but anyone persistent enough could glean that information from somewhere. He had childhood memories to fall back on as well, like Christmas on the coast with his extended family. Choppy seas and the drive out to the beach front to gaze up at the familiar sight of the lighthouse. He relished the thought and a faint smile parted his draconic muzzle.

Then he sighed, forcing himself back to reality. That was all wishful thinking—hoping that they would somehow recognize their son after such a dramatic and violent transformation. It would only serve to pass his trauma of the past day to them, continuing a cycle of pain that no one but him should have to endure. No, he decided. He would bear it alone.

"I'll deal with it," he said quietly, not caring if the others heard him. This was his alone to do. They knew he had always had his heart set on seeing the world. Would it be too great a shock to them if he were to run away? In retrospect, he had, after it was all said and done, wanted an adventure.

Isaac nodded, catching the note of resolute determination the hybrid's voice. He was leaving his life behind, and everything he knew. All of a sudden he saw Michael in a new light. How come he had not taken the time to know his fellow better? The two of them could easily have been friends. Perhaps it was not too late, though. Isaac was sharing in this escapade.

For that matter, Cotramon had been thrust into these shenanigans as well. Of course, he had brought it upon the two of them initially, with an ill-conceived notion of good versus evil. But beyond that, he was a very agreeable person, if a little terse. He seemed not much older than Isaac or Michael, maybe about twenty or thirty years of age.

But he had the insight of experiences that neither of them could comprehend. He had been to war, had trained as a field medic, and now as an assassin. Isaac studied him carefully. He was a complex mix of youthful vitality and aged cynicism. He wondered if the volatile mix would cause problems later. That would have to wait though. Cotramon looked anxious to get underway, and he did not want to set tempers flaring. "What should I pack then? How long will we be gone?"

"Pack some of these… crude… vestments," the Digimon told him, picking at the sleeve of his shirt. "And whatever personal items you think you might need." Michael—he had already begun to think of the hybrid as Michael now—looked contemplatively out the window. "We might be gone for a while."

The hybrid nodded, and as Isaac scooted off to go pack an overnight bag, he followed, wishing to speak to Isaac alone. The human seemed surprised to see him standing in the doorway, eyes, for once, not downcast. Isaac turned to him. The last vestiges of his transformation had come into being while they waited. Disconcertingly long eyeteeth protruded from his upper jaw, glistening white and in stark contrast to his scarlet colored hide.

"I wanted to ask you something," he said, his voice having taken on a rougher quality. It had been bothering him. The two had not known each other well, and had shared only a few core classes in school. But he had been watching and listening to him, and had begun to see a little of the man's true quality.

"Shoot," Isaac replied, pulling a small duffel bag from under his bed.

"Why did you help me? You don't know me, you couldn't have known what was going to happen," Michael said, not really expecting an answer. "You could have been killed. And if you want my honest opinion, you were way too smug about this whole thing… inviting us to your house, offering a sandwich to _him_." Michael narrowed his eyes.

He had seen this coming, the inevitable question. Isaac had no ready answer to give—only that he had had a sense of something important about to happen. He had been glancing over his shoulder all that morning, waiting for something to leap out of the shadows. He had merely been ready for the opportunity.

"It just happened," he replied, shrugging. He pulled open the top drawer of his dresser and pulled out a threesome of folded shirts. What, he wondered, was appropriate to wear when meeting a Digimon emperor or his corresponding high council? Red or green? He sighed, throwing both of them into the bag.

Digimon… "Digital monsters," and he looked at Michael, who looked as if he had not been satisfied by Isaac's vague answer. Living creatures, living in an artificial world: it had to be an amazing twist of fate that created them. "How do you…" he stopped mid-sentence. "I honestly don't know. My dad once told me that a true test of courage comes when only when you have the choice: the choice to do nothing or the choice to make a difference."

His mind momentarily flashed back to the helpless, semi-conscious form in the commons. Why should he not have stepped in? He was a gentle soul, or at least that was what people told him. But he had hit Cotramon _hard! _Why? It was not bravery, or even pity that had driven him. Perhaps it was an unconscious desire to get involved with _something_.

"Call it—instinct?—I suppose."

This was getting him nowhere, and quickly, Michael decided. He completely entered the little room and sat down on the bed. It was, at first glance, a remarkably ordinary room. Posters hung from the walls, depicting various movies, television franchises and other teen-aged icons, overlaying white paint. A computer desk and its accompanying equipment sat against one wall, compact disks strewn about haphazardly and dirty cloths piled in the swivel chair in front of it all. In all, it was not so dissimilar from his home.

How could he be so casual? He was going to another world, surrounded by monsters; and it was not very likely that they would ever come back. Pack for a week, you're about to be executed, he thought dismally. If he could, he would have stopped Isaac from going at all, if only to make sure he did not have to leave his life behind.

"You're acting like this is just a day trip to the city!" Michael growled, unable to stand his companion's nonchalant behavior. Isaac turned from folding a pair of jeans and glared at him. "This isn't some tourist destination—not a cruise, not a bus tour—this is real. It isn't some fantasy adventure where no one gets hurt." He emphasized his point by pointed a clawed finger at one of the bandages on his arm.

"Look at me… Does this," he pointed to himself, pounding once on his chest, "look like a game to you? It isn't to me. This… this hurts. It's painful. More than just the physical torment I had to go through, but now I can't even go tell my parents goodbye. And now _we_ are being hauled off to see a pack of monsters that sent _him_ to kill me in the first place. How do we know they won't finish the job?"

"I trust Cotramon," Isaac replied, dutifully continuing the task at hand. "He won't let anything happen." Seeing the look on the hybrid's face, he clarified. "Think of it this way. Cotramon risked life and limb in an attempt to thwart what he thought was an evil conspiracy against his people. Not only did he brave the unknown to save their lives, but he also had presence of mind enough to _listen _when he realized his mistake."

And that was the key. Despite their obvious differences, and the Digimon's tendency toward contempt for the humans, he listened. If, as he claimed, his superiors were wise and just creatures, then they would also listen to reason. And who else was going to testify as to what happened? Isaac had been the only one present and clear-minded.

"I know it isn't a game, too," he said, laying a hand on Michael's shoulder, looking earnestly into his eyes. "But what if he doesn't go back? They might send someone else who might be willing to go farther than him to kill you. Someone else might have destroyed the school, students and all. Or he may even go so far as to wipe out the town. We need to go so that this can be resolved without violence."

He understood that, but wondered if the Digimon would be as enlightened as the human currently jaunting off to meet them. A faint smile tugged at the edge of Michael's scaly lips. Isaac was a much wiser man than he. He would make a great diplomat if he ever had the chance. Of course, and now he could not help but grin, he was acting as the emissary of the Human Race. There was certainly much more to him than Michael had previously known.

"I'll take your word for it," he told the human.

Isaac zipped his duffle shut and nodded, eyes glimmering. Fate, divine providence, or destiny—whatever one wanted to call it—had chosen him and Michael for this sojourn into the unknown. "We're off then." And quickly as well; sundown was quickly approaching.

* * *

Not yet, as it turned out. Cotramon had not wanted to take any chances in being seen, and took the most circuitous route he could manage in the drizzling, cold night. Isaac had had the good sense to "borrow" a few old coats from his parent's closet, sighting that they would need to be warm. Cotramon refused, however, as his hide could protect him better than any human contrived garments. Michael initially refused as well, but one step outside into the freezing mud changed his mind and he gladly accepted the additional protection.

He was not as hearty as Cotramon, apparently.

The course, though twisting and turning on every side street and dark alley—most of them only dimly lit by far-off floodlights, did bring them manageably close to Michael's residence—or his former residence, he thought sardonically. They stopped there momentarily. The two story building was dark except for a light in an upstairs window.

"Oh god," he said, alarmed by the realization that his family was not only home, but in all probability waiting for him to return home. He stopped short of the fence line, and the worn cement walk, fingering his house keys. He almost cursed Isaac for retrieving them from his battered clothing.

Eventually they would find out what happened, be it through rumors or television broadcast, or even Isaac. He shuddered. He could not bear to open that door, even for just the tiniest fraction of a second. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder, then another hand gripped his other shoulder. He turned to his right, recognizing Isaac in the dimly lit night. To his left, the glistening blue eyes of the Digimon looked back at him.

"You don't have to go in," they both said in unison. "You're still getting used to being a Digimon—er—half anyway," Cotramon continued, almost compassionately, as if he knew something of the sort transformation. "You don't have to be brave yet. That'll come in time. For right now, just focus on getting through the present."

It was that advice, more than the stiff grip the Digimon had on him, that helped him decide. They would go on, and he would avoid the problem until he could set things right within himself. How could he hope to persuade his family of his identity while he was not sure of it himself anymore? Michael had pinned his hopes on the vague notion that maybe, just maybe, he could find answers in the Digital World.

He made his decision public, and asked Cotramon, very gravely, to lead on. From there, the reptilian Digimon did not take any more winding, sneaking paths through hedges and back alleys. It was only a five block march to the Digital Gate, which they made in silence.

"I don't see anything," Isaac said, incredulously.

Michael gawked at him in disbelief. How could he not see _that? _It was huge, a mass of swirling, opalescent fog, opening massively before them. It seemed to generate its own sort of luminescence, a pale sort of violet color, much darker at the center than at its amorphous fringes. It reminded him of a tunnel in the sky, like something depicted of an out-of-body experience.

"Your eyes don't register the ultraviolet radiation," Cotramon informed Isaac. "You'll see it once we cross over." He glanced at the hybrid, knowingly. He saw it. His eyes had changed along with the rest of him. He was seeing something that no other human could, or would ever see. And even as he stared for a moment, he had to admit, it _was_ breathtaking.

Isaac only saw dark buildings, a few trees, and some automobiles silhouetted against a dark, overcast sky. Then, Cotramon stepped forward into the darkness and flickered out of existence. Michael went next, wonderment registering on his face. Suddenly he remembered the Digimon's words: "You don't have to be brave yet…" Yes, he did. He breathed deep and shouldered his duffle more comfortably. Then he stepped forward.

Suddenly he was enveloped by churning, misty tendrils of fog, and a scorching heat washed over him, parching him instantly. He closed his eyes, protecting himself from the searing temperatures, and then found himself much cooler, and a little damp. He opened his eyes. The three of them stood, in undeniable daylight, though it was still diluted by fog. The others looked patiently at him, and then started forward again. He followed, not wanting to lose sight of them in the thick soup. Then, as if someone had turned on a light, the fog lifted.


	4. Part One: Chapter IV

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter IV]

By T. D. Larson

Fog, much to the surprise of both Michael and Isaac, was not as otherworldly as television made it seem. There were no shadows moving about them as they had expected, and no dark looming shapes lingered just at the edge of their visions. Only a gray, heavy curtain of damp hung over them as they entered the Digital World. A few moments later, as they edged their way forward into this new frontier, the fog lifted, and all three of them stood for a moment blinking in the unexpected sunlight.

For the most part, at least to the two newcomers, it looked very much like Earth. A pale blue sky greeted them with a white sun and wispy vapors looping around it like halos. Ahead of them, all was sand and rocks, far as the horizon, save for a cluster of lighter material, shimmering brightly in the heat-distorted air.

The two of them might have taken it for a mirage, had Cotramon not told them they would find hospitality there. "March!" he had ordered, advising them to shed their rain gear. This they did, now beginning to feel the heat of a desert sun pounding them. Then they began plodding through the course sand.

It was not at all as Isaac had expected. The idea of another world filled with creatures like Michael and Cotramon had conjured images of unending fields of odd plants, set about in haphazardly under a strange sky. Odd sights framing even more peculiar creatures lingered in his mind, even as they grew closer to that collection of bright shapes, which he now took to be a city. In all, Isaac found it very anticlimactic for such a journey.

"That's merely an outpost," Cotramon explained, as they drew near. But even he had to admit that the outpost had grown to be much more than that. In the old days, after the war and before the Emperor had ascended to the throne, it had been only a scientific research station, monitoring the Human World for signs of intelligence.

Many such sights were scattered across the borders of the Digital World. All of them were stationed at weak points between the worlds, like weigh-stations for travelers. Not that traveling was even allowed—except for specific purposes such as his. And each point corresponded to a different point in the Human World. It had taken years to evaluate where each gate lead, and then to systematically whittle down the options of where the hybrid—Michael, Cotramon corrected himself—would be found. "We study you humans from there. It's an observation post," he said.

Michael found it difficult to believe, with a wall that large and a gate that huge. It was, indeed, a city by any terrestrial standards. The walls loomed high, fifty feet or more, from the desert sands below, and an equally massive gate barred entry. He wondered briefly why it had to be so large, and then it opened, at the behest of their Digimon guide.

The reason, and here he found he could not contain his startled amazement, was because of the sheer size that Digimon could reach. Two large dinosaur-like beasts, pushing at enormous handles situated on the inside of each door, pressed outward with all their might. The orange and blue striped monsters easily rose to the height of two fully grown men, and their girth was equal to a large freight shipment. Each of them, and their great horned helmets, greeted Cotramon and the others with a loud growling welcome as soon as the portal was open.

Isaac tried to reply to the best of his ability in the same roaring language as the giants. To his chagrin, he only managed to produce a gurgling, weak answer that elicited a deep rumbling laughter from them. So humans could not speak "growlish." So he tried again in English, hoping to at least begin on peaceable terms with them. "I'm sorry I can't speak your language," he said to them, raising his voice. "But, if that was a welcome,"—and, even though they growled, their tone was inviting enough to be taken as such—"thank you."

One of them peered down with great brown eyes and dropped his jaw, much like Cotramon did when he smiled. "It is fine, small one," it said in strangely accented English. "We study the human languages here as well, should we ever come into contact with your people. We are Greymon."

Both of them were Greymon? He had stopped now, in the midst of a train of thought. "Then how do you distinguish between you? When someone calls 'Greymon, come here!' how do you know which of you he means?" The two hulking figures looked at each other and then back down to Isaac. "Don't you have names," he asked.

One of them nodded. "Our names are in our own tongue, though, unpronounceable by you, apparently." He told him his name, a small sequence of grunting noises with various articulations. It seemed to Isaac the auditory equivalent to a string uncut gems, almost musical in quality. Then the monster told him his cohort's name. That was a two-set noise, like lulling sound followed by a crack of thunder.

He told them as such. "You are very perceptive, small one," the thunderous one said. "Our names are given at birth by parents for a particular quality we display, or as a blessing of things to come. I was born in the mountains after a fierce windstorm. My brother," he indicated the other Greymon, "was born, and our father's father presented the family with a hand-cut gem. So he was named."

And Cotramon, then, was not _his_ real name. So what was it? That got him set to thinking about his companions, and he realized with abrupt clarity that they had left him behind. Hastily he wished the two Digimon a good day and ran off, catching up with them just as they reached a central square, filled with even more Digimon milling about—some of them larger than even the two Greymon at the gates.

* * *

The Enemy looked over a detailed map of Anshar and its capital city. He knew it was outdated, just as his master did. Millenniumon stood by silently, apprehensively awaiting any word his master gave. Silence, though he had appreciated it during the war, had begun to dig into him in a way that bode very badly. It was when his master sat in silent contemplation that he was most prone to outbursts.

Perhaps "outburst" was the wrong word. They had been locked away on this accursed plane for years, and patience was wearing thin. His master had a desire so deep-set within him to rule and conquer, it had become an obsession. And it had happened far before they had crossed paths. But the years of solitude since the war had given him time to plot.

The seal holding them there—he, his master, and Apocalymon, who led the military arm of his master's triumvirate—had begun to fail. The fires from Musplshiem had seeped in and made the dark, storm-churned climate warm. And even now, as the seal continued to crumble, his master began rebuilding his army.

Those foolish Digimon that had locked him away—they called themselves the Sovereignty—had given the Enemy an entire world and its resources to work with. The arrogance of them, who thought they could stay his power indefinitely, had also sealed his vast, soulless armies away with them. Now he had built his army to ten times what it was during the war. And Millenniumon, though not entirely sure of the prospect, had helped him.

How many Digimon had he killed? At first it had been for the need to experiment, as many of the initial tests he had run were on volunteers who thought his master was, indeed, worthy of recognition. Soon, though, the coup had succeeded, and once established, the Enemy had redefined himself. And the volunteers soon turned into conscripted soldiers.

And from there, because of him, they became mindless shells of their former selves. He could no longer remember the promises that the Enemy had made him, only that for the longest time, he could think of no better reason than the pursuit of his passion. He had even been given the whole of Ea and its teaming underwater cities, to play with. He was a Lord unto himself, and over everything in the water and on the land.

He shifted slightly, making no noise. For his size and bulk, and for the machinery that plagued his body, it was a feat not to be taken lightly. In his service to the Enemy, he had sacrificed much of his body. Now he survived on internal mechanisms and prosthetics that he had engineered hastily as his internal organs shut down.

Because of this, he was not as strong, nor as quick as his counterpart, the End of All Worlds. Apocalymon was just what his namesake evoked: a terror, able to snatch up enemies far and abroad with his long, winding limbs, without having to move a single pace. He had been known to level cities and villages via bombardment. For him, it was the thrill of destruction that drove him onward. And his form, suitably corrupted by their master's influence, was an instrument to that end.

Millenniumon's strength was in his mind, and what he could produce. Not a warrior, but a thinker, he had fashioned many of his master's ideas into reality. That was what brought them to their current predicament. One such idea, he had thought it destroyed, had yet survived, and had been studied by the Digimon above them in the higher planes.

"What do you suppose such a union of bloodlines will produce," the Enemy queried him, turning his dark gaze ominously upon him. Millenniumon almost shuddered. His master's calm voice was not to be trusted. He was a Digimon of immense power, unmatched anywhere in the Digital World. And though he was cruel, even to such as Millenniumon, he was also cunning and efficient. And he did not take failure lightly.

He must choose his words carefully, as he already treaded upon thin ice. Even now, and he continued the analogy in his mind, he could hear the tinkling, cracking of his path before it would give way and shatter. "Pyromon had a power, that, in time, might have rivaled yours," he said, deciding truth was the best course of action. "And because he is a product of the Clone-Works, he is tied to your blood as well. Your son, though he may appear weak, has the potential to destroy us all if left to his own devices."

The Enemy turned back to his study of Anshar before replying. "I concur. I have already sent an agent to assess the situation." Then he remained in silence for several more minutes, with only the shuffling of folded maps breaking the menacing silence that now pervaded the chamber. Then, with a start of surprise, Millenniumon heard the words for his dismissal.

Inwardly, he sighed in relief.

* * *

Michael stood motionless as the black-clad form introduced himself. He was smaller than many of the other Digimon that passed them by, taking scant notice of the trio. But he still rose to a height head and shoulders above the hybrid. He, like many of the Digimon, who he had seen, was reptilian in nature, and vaguely draconic as well, with scales as black as pitch and black armor gleaming in the midday sun.

He introduced himself first in the native tongue, a curt, meaty sounding grunt by Isaac's ear. Then he introduced himself again in gruff English: "I am," and he pronounced his name again. "His majesty, the Emperor Boreamon, bids you welcome." He bowed to them, his horned helmet nearly touching the ground at their feet.

"They sent you?" Cotramon asked, incredulously. He hardly believed that the affair was worthy of a personal escort—let alone that their escort might be one of the Emperor's own guard. He raised himself back up, the seal on his chest armor glimmering neatly. He was indeed a Guard. "Who's idea was this?"

The figure, whom Isaac and Michael were later able to identify as a Black WarGreymon, answered, "Baihumon requested a special detail for you on behalf of the Sovereignty." He grinned under his helmet, startling Cotramon by breaking the decorum the Imperial Guard was known for. "Whether it is to protect them," and he pointed to the others, "or to protect us, I do not know. In any case, I will be your escort while you are here."

Cotramon nodded at the unorthodox Digimon as he turned to inspect Michael and the human. He examined Isaac carefully. "What is your name, small one? Or shall I make one up for you?"

"Isaac Marx," he replied, not the least intimidated. It had been the second time a Digimon had called him "Small One." He held out his hand to the burly Digimon in the age-old human gesture. The Black WarGreymon took it thoughtfully, and gave it one good shake, rattling Isaac's comparatively frail form. "What shall I call you then?"

His yellow eyes brightened and he smiled widely, showing disconcertingly long fangs. "Ah! You _are_ perceptive!" he laughed, his voice a deep rumble. He stood to his full height again, towering over the three of them. "My native tongue translates my name to 'Tank' in yours," he said. Isaac nodded.

"That's an appropriate name if ever I heard one," Michael chimed. This Tank was easily the largest creature he had seen—even the two sentries he had passed on the way in seemed small in comparison. This guy had _presence!_ "I'm Michael," he introduced himself. "Michael Delancy."

"Ah, yes!" said the Digimon. "I have heard of you, the hybrid and son of the Enemy…" Michael blinked, startled. He thought he had caught a glimmer of something in those yellow eyes—something he did not like, nor could he place his finger on just what it was. In the next moment, it was gone, replaced by strangely youthful mirth. "You have the form a recognizable hero in our world. He saved many lives in the war, not least among them your partner's."

His partner? The Black WarGreymon had nodded, ever so slightly, to Cotramon. He had noticed as well and humphed at the reference. Obviously Michael had missed something there—an inference of some deeper connection. He, unlike his fully-human companion, was not nearly as insightful. But still, the green Digimon was beginning to grow on him.

Cotramon had at least been sympathetic—at least after he had calmed down properly. The Digimon made sure during their trek to the Digital Gate that he knew some of the history. That, and what he had gathered from the snippets of conversation he had overheard, the Digimon was in earnest trying rectify a profoundly difficult situation. It, among other things, included his sincere apology to Michael as well.

"Yes, then," Cotramon said suddenly, cutting off Tank's rabbit-trail discussion with Isaac on the various naming customs of both worlds. "We were to be met with transportation," he said, looking around. He saw no Digimon on the airfield and wondered if they had been forgotten, and then dismissed the thought.

He pointed to it. There, coming into land on a small airstrip was a large silvery shape that had the distinct look of an aircraft. On closer inspection, however, they saw it was actually a creature, probably another of the incredibly varied Digimon, and that the metallic gleam was a sort of harness attached to its underside for passengers. It was at least the size of a small airliner.

"Indeed," Tank said emphatically, cutting short their amazement. "The Sovereignty will be expecting you when you arrive. They want you debriefed as soon as possible," he said to Cotramon. Then, turning to the others, he spoke casually. "They're very interested in you two as well, but after a long journey such as this, they thought it better to give you a chance to rest. It's only a few hours by air."

The flying Digimon came to rest its four legs, and was attended to by a ground crew offering it food and drink. He would be ready to fly again shortly, one of the ground crew explained to them. Digimon of this nature often flew passengers from city to city and plane to plane using harnesses or other such devices.

"I suppose it's cheaper than jet fuel," Isaac quipped. He must have been a charter, though, as there were no passengers disembarking. He must also have been on a tight schedule, as he scarfed down the platter that was brought him, and took a long drought in an appropriately sized trough.

Moment by moment, this world was getting more and more strange. He had expected as much. But it was a different sort of strange, Isaac supposed. Instead of monsters and bugbears, he found monsters that were perfectly suited to their surroundings. It made them appear normal—or as normal as he could grasp in an alien world. The hulking figures of Greymon and others were not out of place at all.

Mentally he chided himself. Of course they were normal. This was their world. His mental image had been of creatures that size trying not to step on houses or cars, taking mincing, short steps on narrow streets. But the broad avenues he observed now, and the immense architecture of their dwellings—the doors alone would suffice to admit a school bus—were nothing like the cities of Earth. He almost laughed as he explained his revelation to Michael, who set to wonder where he would fit in.

He was one of those creatures, walking down a wide thoroughfare, but small as a human. Then again, Cotramon was much the same size, as were a great many of the Digimon that went by. He had the sense, though, that a large portion of them would end up at least the size of their escort, Tank.

He would resolve to ask Cotramon about that later. He had he inexplicable sense that there was far more to Digimon than just what he saw. It was some sort of expectation, deep set inside him, that he needed to _change_ somehow. He had just become aware of it, meeting the Black WarGreymon and the two sentries at the gate.

But it frightened him as well. He had done enough _changing_ for one lifetime. Again he found himself looking down at his hands—symbols of the spectacular transformation he had gone through. Was there more to come? In one sense, he hoped not. The last time had been agonizingly painful, an experience unmatched in his life.

Then again, when he thought about the prospect of elevating himself to the next level, a thrill of excitement coursed through him. He felt the nervousness of someone about to take a leap of faith, where the risk, though great, was nothing compared to the reward. He needed only step out of his preconceived boundaries and remember that he was not, in fact, human.

Someone shook him back to his senses. It was Cotramon, who rapped him on the head once. "It's time to go," the Digimon said, gesturing to their transportation. Then, noticing the doubtful, and anxious expression on Michael's muzzle, leaned in close. "If you want to talk, I'm here. I'm not an expert on what's happened to you, but I can listen."

"That…" he sighed heavily, "would be great."


	5. Part One: Chapter V

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter V]

By T. D. Larson

"You mean to digivolve?"

The lounge-like passenger compartment was large enough to hold their group several times over, leaving Michael and Cotramon room for a private conversation. Cotramon had taken a seat in an oversized, padded chair across a table from Michael. Their surroundings were built for Digimon of much larger sizes, and the Black WarGreymon, Tank, sat across of Isaac on the other end of the compartment, comfortably, drumming his claws on a table.

Cotramon looked out a window at the passing landscape below, and then back to Michael. The hybrid had asked a strange question, that he was not quite sure how to answer. Certainly he meant digivolution. It was only natural for a Digimon to want to become stronger—that was their nature, their most basic instinct to fight. Of course, they had learned to control that urge long ago. Gladiatorial combat was a favorite pastime of Digimon everywhere, allowing them to fight without harm.

Now, instead of conquering each other, it was sport and training. The war had been different though. Digimon had battled each other, and the soulless minions the Enemy had created. Desperation, fear, and sheer force of will had brought out potent digivolutions.

"It's a process of gaining strength," Cotramon continued, distractedly. "Since we're digital matter, we can grow and change. Digivolution is the primary way of doing that." He had not thought Michael would be able to do it though. He was only half Digimon, not a full blooded digital monster. But the awakening of that compulsion raised doubts within him. What would he digivolve into? There was never any way to tell. "You ask because you feel the need inside you, don't you?"

Michael nodded. "I'm not sure I want to. I think I've changed enough." But still… the thrill, the excitement. He had felt Tank's presence, as if the man had an energy about him that filled any space he occupied. Michael could almost believe the Digimon was invincible. "Why does Tank feel so much stronger than anyone else?"

"He does have that feeling, doesn't he?" They both threw a sidelong glance at him, discussing something animatedly with Isaac. The two got along very well, he thought. "He's a mega Digimon. That's why. Digimon are born from eggs into their 'fresh' forms. From there they digivolve to in-training Digimon, then to rookie, where you and I are."

Michael screwed his face up into something that looked contemplative. "There's other levels, too, right? Like something between where we are and what _he_ is." The gap was just too large, he decided. So much power and strength emanating from him had to take years of training. "What about the Sovereignty? Are they megas as well?"

He was a quick study, this Michael. He had already pieced together the archaic hierarchy of the Digital World. Generally, higher level Digimon were revered for the hard work and dedication they put into their training. They also tended to be much wiser than other Digimon. "Yes, to both questions," he said. "First of all, there are two levels between us and them. Champion and ultimate Digimon are a good match for anyone. But the Sovereignty were the first to digivolve during the Liberation War against the Enemy. They led us, and they now advise the Emperor, as he respects their wisdom as much as everyone else."

"I see…"

Champion and ultimate? The classifications sounded almost cartoonish. But Cotramon looked so serious, speaking about it. He had a good mind to forget the whole affair. "I don't like the idea. Look what sort of trouble I caused the last time." Still, he was curious. The Digimon spoke of this evolution almost as if it were a tangible joy.

If Tank were any clue, not all Digimon that powerful were giants. Some undoubtedly were. He imagined, from the unconscious inclination of Cotramon's head when he spoke of them, that the Sovereign Digimon were true giants, towering over anything he had yet seen. Then he wondered what their _presence_ would feel like, and he shuddered at the thought. He felt a certain twinge of doubt at their supposed wisdom. After all, beings that fought and conquered to gain strength had to be trouble.

He let his mind wander for the remainder of the trip, trying not to focus on the trouble brewing in the back of his mind. Michael had never been one to trust his guts, but he had a nagging suspicion that something was about to happen to him—as if he were about to be subjected to a critical test, which his life depended upon. Maybe it did.

* * *

The transport landed only a few hours later, setting down in a large bowl-shaped impression in the center of a massive city. Even from the air, the two newcomers were awed by the fact that it stretched as far as their eyes could see. Nearly from horizon to horizon, over an area of several hundred square miles, the city of Anshar sprawled beneath them, its denizens going about their lives oblivious to the gaping mouths of their two newest visitors.

Aside from the enormous area the metropolis encompassed, the buildings themselves were equally gargantuan, much like those they had seen at the so-called weigh-station at the borders of the Digital World. Now, at least, they knew why Cotramon had called it merely an outpost. For, as they now saw, it was nothing in comparison to this place. Curved, domed roofs covered nearly every piece of boxy architecture, all of them as large as a city block. Some were smaller, comprised of shops and open-air markets where giant Digimon mingled with smaller creatures, still comparable to small pieces of industrial machinery.

Cotramon coughed purposefully, drawing their attention to an vast, wide boulevard down the center leading to a cluster of skyscrapers about a mile distant from their landing field. Surrounding it was a wall, circular, encompassing all of the grounds within, and a large central complex divided into five separate wings. Out of the center rose a pillar with a domed observation deck at its peak.

"That is the Imperial residence," he said. "And it is also our destination." He sighed. It had been a while since he had seen Anshar Proper, or the palace. Not since the Emperor had met with him personally, and given him his blessing. The mission he had undertaken was of supreme importance to the Digital World, and now it had taken on even more importance—especially to him. Would the Sovereignty and the Emperor take him as a failure, or would they be glad of the potential ally?

Very few new of the real reason why the Clone Works had been studied so thoroughly, and even fewer of the reason it was activated. Only that it was, and that a call had gone out to the public for the cleverest and most powerful Digimon to be found, ever reached the outside of his little circle. It was a circle, in all honesty, that he had been lucky to have been admitted to at all. His influence there was minimal—almost non-existent, in fact. It included only him, the Sovereignty and the Emperor himself. And Cotramon, as only a messenger and assassin, was the lowest on the totem pole.

He was to speak of it to no one, lest the word get out and panic ensue. But despite the best efforts of the Sovereignty at the end of the war were not enough. Everyone knew that the Enemy had not been destroyed, but they were under the delusion that he was sealed in an inescapable prison—a little piece of the inferno, made just for him.

Cotramon shuddered. A super soldier to fight the Enemy, and they had gotten a human hybrid that was based on _his_ genetic code. Yet there was potential in him, the Digimon knew. His very transformation proved that, harkening back to the most powerful of the Digimon he had ever seen fight. EmeraldGreymon, who had evolved from Pyromon during the war, had fought during the siege on Anshar, the city below them.

The hybrid also came from that stock. Good stock, he decided. So the potential remained that he would be a powerful ally against the Enemy. The seal was beginning to wear thin, and soon war would be upon the Digital World again.

What a terrible war it had been in the first place. Decades of war had ravaged the Digital World. Entire planes had been devastated, stripped of their natural resources and laid barren. Each and every layer to the Digital World had suffered, each plane a different menagerie of disasters. And the casualties had been catastrophic—so many Digimon had been lost to the Enemy or to his generals. So many more had been deleted altogether.

There was a shudder as the transport came to rest in the landing field. He blinked, his concentration faltering, and his train of thought long gone. Immediately, the ground crew began swarming their Digimon transportation as an announcement in a recognizable, but heavily accented English, asked them to disembark. The stairs leading from the entry hatch were, like everything else in the compartment, oversized for humans and smaller Digimon, and the three smaller passengers awkwardly made their way out, took their gaze upon the capital city.

Cotramon was relieved to see it had not changed much since his last visit, more than a year prior. Though, in retrospect, he should not have been surprised. This was the oldest city in the Digital World, and thus, the least likely to change "overnight." He smiled, wondering if some of his old haunts were still around, and decided he would have to look into it later. There would be time, he hoped. Maybe he would take the others with him.

Tank bordered on giddy as he came ashore. Cotramon caught him looking around expectantly, as if he were waiting to be greeted by an even larger entourage. No one came, however, except for more of the ground crew tending to the large, winged Digimon behind them. He quickly realized that, it looked, and gave his full attention to his three charges.

"I assume Cotramon mentioned that our destination is the palace," he iterated, making a sweeping gesture toward the grandiose complex. "You are to be guests of the Emperor himself, an honor extended to a very select few. I recommend an air of sobriety, as the Imperial Guard take their positions very seriously."

Then, quite to Cotramon's irritation, and to the surprise of the others, he pulled a list from a chink in his armor. "The following are to be abided by in all cases: There will be no unauthorized access to palace grounds. You will leave your staterooms only when summoned, or in the escort of myself or another member of the Imperial Guard. You will speak to the Sovereignty and the Emperor only when spoken to. And you will answer any and _all_ questions they ask in truth."

He winked, and grinned under his helmet, replacing the list. "Of course, these are merely guidelines. The Emperor is far more relaxed than we lead you to believe." The others nodded soberly, clearly intimidated by the list of mandates. "Since Cotramon is an officially recognized agent of the Empire, he qualifies as escort. And, if you like, I'll tag along to keep things under control. We don't often get tourists from another dimension." His joking manner unnerved Cotramon again, forcing him one more time to wonder how such a flippant Digimon ever made the ranks of such a prestigious organization.

* * *

Isaac had barely paid attention to Tank's speech, only catching the gist of it. Do not stare; do not deviate from your present course. That summed it up well, he thought. And do not interrupt for anything. It only just registered in him, though, as he was completely absorbed in his surroundings. He had never seen such a place, so filled with people, so large that he could not see the end of it.

A mile seemed only a few feet by comparison, when he asked about the distance to the palace. He was grateful for that, after seeing the sheer breadth of the city. He was advised, along with Michael, to stay close to the pack, as there were many people who would be opposed to them being there.

"Your existence," Cotramon explained, referring to Michael, "is not a secret, nor is your heritage. Some would even take your form, Pyromon, as an insult. That's why the Sovereignty provided an escort. And, though our worlds haven't officially had contact, there are Digimon who oppose making contact with Humans as well."

An insult? Isaac vaguely remembered something about a Pyromon being a war hero. As they walked, he asked, "Why is him being a Pyromon such an insult?" Cotramon opened his mouth and rolled his eyes, as if the answer were as obvious as daylight, then closed it and began again, nodding.

"I forgot, you're not from here."

"No, we're not," Michael interrupted, now curious himself as to the question of his insulting figure. He too remembered the reference to a war hero, and had a sense that it would be important later. He might even be questioned about it by the authority of the Digital World's leadership. "So what's the deal with it? What have I done?"

Even now, as they left the airfield, he noticed Digimon of all sizes staring at him, some horrified. A large crowd had gathered at the entrance, word having spread somehow of the hybrid and his arrival. Many boasted signs in a language that neither Michael nor Isaac understood until Michael heard Cotramon mutter under his breath.

"Those dolts think you can read digi-code…"

Michael was glad for their wrong assumption. The last thing he needed was insults, or at least to understand what they meant. He, like Cotramon, rolled his eyes. Many of them shouted angrily in growling, halting English. Some had even learned a few swear words in the human language, and others just stood silently, glaring at Michael as he passed by them.

The varied shapes and forms all had gleaming eyes, bright and glittering in the hot sun. The hybrid noticed a distinct presence of reptilian or dragon-like Digimon. Some looked almost human as well. He found himself staring back at them, wondering just what kind of enemy they were mistaking him for. What could have been so unspeakable and so malicious as to inspire such hatred?

He was human anyway. They should have known that. But how could he explain to a people so unwilling to listen that he was nothing more than an average human being, just coming into adulthood. Then again, he could hardly prove that he was, in fact, human. Just look at me, he thought. He was a freak, even by sideshow standards. Not human, not a Digimon, how could he belong to either world?

Then there was a pop, and a startled yelp issued from Isaac brought him back to the present. He looked at the human, who had stopped, next to a wall where a large chunk had been chipped out of it. Dust plumed out of the gaping hole, which he now took as a small impact crater. He stopped, and turned his red eyes to the crowd.

"Who threw that?" he demanded, some of the Digimon taken aback. "Who threw it?" His voice had taken on its own growling quality as he shouted down the protesters. They may have had a right to protest his visitation, but not Isaac's. "You've got a bone to pick, pick it with me. But leave my human out of it," he shouted. "Now _who_ did it?"

Cotramon and Tank had fallen in with him, surrounding Isaac. Another projectile, a small slab of stone, rocketed toward them, narrowly missing Michael and colliding with the wall. A second pop, and the sound of stone falling to the ground told him no one had been hurt. But the renewed shouts drown out any sort of communication between them.

"You're all traitors," someone bellowed from the midst of the mob. Others took up the cry, and a chorus of threats and declarations of violence against them rose up. Another stone, this time larger, rocketed out from the rabble. It too missed by a mile, but left a yawning hole where the others merely left chipped masonry.

Michael had caught the culprit this time, and pointed a clawed finger towards the offending Digimon. "Hey!" he called, as the roughly human-shaped Digimon tried to duck into the throng of people. "Come back here you coward!" The Digimon halted his retreat and turned, brown eyes alight with rage. Michael started, briefly wondering if he should have phrased his request in a more diplomatic way.

The man-like Digimon came forward, gripping another large rock in one hand. "You hide for years in the Human World? And then have the nerve to desecrate the memory of my city's patron?" the Digimon questioned, his voice eerily calm. "And then you call me a coward!" He came out of the crowd fully now, green skinned and wearing a short tunic of violet fabric. His short, pointed muzzle was drawn into an angry snarl as he reached for an unreasonably large blade.

"So you attack an innocent?" Michael shouted, deciding to stand his ground. He gestured toward Isaac, his other hand clenched into a tight fist. "What has he got to do with it? The only reason he's here is as a witness. He's not related to this enemy of yours!"

He felt a righteous indignation welling within him, burning like a furnace within him. Someone had once told him that he ought to stand up for the helpless, or at least those who chose not to fight. Isaac was a good man; he had done nothing to provoke that Digimon except by being there. He would not have hurt a soul, except in self-defense. And Michael was not even sure of that much.

"How can you justify that?" he demanded.

The lizard-man shot out a forked tongue in irritation and snorted contemptuously at him. "By being in league with _you_," he said, lacing his words with venomous ire, "he has proven himself to be an agent of the Enemy. And as for you… you don't deserve to set foot on our soil." He unsheathed his blade, the metal glowing eerily in the daylight.

Was he really going to attack, for such a dubious reason as that? The Digimon paced forward. The mob, sensing the oncoming battle backed away, more subdued by the brandishing of weapons. Michael looked back at Cotramon, who had taken a readied stance, and Tank, who stood guard between them and Isaac. He could not let this happen.

"I don't want to fight you. I just want to conduct my business and go home," Michael said, trying to placate the green-skinned native. Suddenly the Digimon made his move, lightning quick, slashing at the draconic hybrid. He dropped to the street and rolled out of the way, only just catching the last remnants of shimmering heat from the furious attack. The crowd leered, snickering at his attempt to dodge.

He rolled again, into the crowd this time. They made way, parting like water, for the Digimon who once again tried to skewer him. Michael managed to scramble to his feet and promptly fell back to the ground again, stumbling over his tail. Cotramon came from the opposite side, and made a slash at the Digimon with his claws, leaving a trail of black flames in his wake.

His "phantom claw" attack missed, alerting the Dinohyumon to his presence. He kicked at Cotramon once, catching him in the chest and sent him staggering back. He drew a second blade, making for the rookie.

No, Michael thought. He climbed to a standing position once more and launched himself at the attacker, sending both of them to the ground. "You don't get it, do you?" he asked, trying to get a grip on the Digimon's struggling hands. "This isn't helping anything!"

His attacker slipped one of his hands around Michael's back and dragged him to a prone position, face to face. He dropped his swords then, opting to use closed fists, as heavy as brick, to pound him. Michael put up his arms to block the incoming punches. But the Dinohyumon was too quick, landing punch after devastating punch on his unprotected body.

He tasted blood in his mouth, and doubled over as an especially powerful blow caught him in the gut. He felt around for the nearest object to try and defend himself. His hands clutched nothing but sand as another fist caught him under the chin. His vision turned dark for a moment and he felt disoriented. The world spun around him and now two more Digimon were attacking him, identical to the first.

Michael grabbed at the sand and threw it into their eyes. The Digimon, startled, screamed profanities and leapt off him. The hybrid laid there, half blind. The buildings were a lot taller than he remembered, and they seemed to be swaying. He moaned, rolled over, and coughed up blood. He had to get up.

* * *

Cotramon was already in action as he saw the hybrid roll over and rise wearily to his feet. Dinohymon was a champion Digimon that favored one on one competition. Alone, few Digimon of the same level could outclass him. What chance would a lowly rookie and a half-Digimon hybrid stand, then? Together, they could flank him though, if they were fast enough.

He had tried it, and got a gut-wrenching kick in reward. Their opponent was too fast. And now he was taking aim at Michael again. There was murder in his eyes, the likes of which Cotramon had only seen a few times. "_Blazing Fire! _" he shouted, unleashing his fireball at the champion level Digimon. The deep breath required made him wince—he had bruised a rib at the very least. It caused his attack to peter out before reaching the target.

So he took a step forward and tried to appeal to the Digimon's sense of reason. "Don't hurt him, you've made your point!" Michael had gotten up by now, but his wounds from the previous night were open now, oozing more blood and staining the bandages still on his arms crimson. "Dinohyumon! He's been summoned by the Emperor! You mustn't hurt him!"

He continued forward, and threw himself into a running tackle, swiping with his claws again. "_Phantom Claw!_" The humanoid fighter backhanded him, swatting away the attack with little more effort than it took to swat a fly. It took slow, deliberate and menacing steps toward the hybrid. "Michael!"

* * *

Isaac watched in horror as his hybrid companion fell to the floor, pummeled by the unforgiving rage of a zealous Digimon. He was a big man—over six feet tall, and a build that would make most humans cower if he ever chose to challenge them. But compared to a Digimon, even one as relatively small as Cotramon, who barely came up to his chest, he was nothing.

He had only managed to stop Cotramon from delivering a killing blow by luck, leaping in at just the right time with a hard enough piece of plastic to warrant the Digimon taking a second thought to him. But what could he do now? That Digimon—Dinohyumon, Cotramon had called him—was far too quick, and much stronger. He wondered why Tank did not intervene. The Imperial Guard only watched, seemingly in fascination, as the Digimon picked up one of his swords and continued to advance toward Michael.

He had risen to his feet completely by now, and turned defiantly toward the Digimon. "I don't want to fight you," he repeated to no avail. "If it'll prove to you that I don't want to fight, I won't even defend myself." He lifted his eyes, bright with fiery determination.

They were only a few paces away from each other now, and Dinohyumon lifted his cleaver. Time slowed for the human, as he found himself running toward Michael, yet again, trying desperately to save his life. The only thought that registered in his mind was that there was something special, not yet seen, about him. And that he needed to be preserved.

Isaac may not have been as strong as the Digimon, but he was massive enough to throw him off balance, into the watching horde of creatures. The Digimon ducked into a roll and came out, facing him. He crouched to a position that suggested he had acquired a new target. Then the reality struck him hard as the Digimon sprung at him.

* * *

"No! Stop!" Michael shouted, diving at the champion Digimon. He would not defend himself. He would not defend Cotramon—who would not need it anyway. But Isaac… the human was defenseless, unarmed and hopelessly outmatch by the speed of their assailant. He had to do something. He had to protect him—even if it were just to repay him in kind—he had to _do_ something. _Anything_.

He felt it again, a burning sensation all over his body, very much like what he had felt the day before. But it was different—the heat was warm, pleasant. It was insistent, though, as if it were an immediate need to be addressed. Or the addressing of an immediate need, he realized. The power he felt building in his muscles was intense—he could match Dinohymon with it. He could do something now, stop the attack.

Then, suddenly, everything stood still, like a photograph as he heard himself shouting some incomprehensible phrase. But it was instinct—like that _dynamite rush_ he had used on Cotramon—except it exponentially greater. _"Pyromon digivolve to…"_ He paused as the name came to him. There was a strength in it that he had never felt before—like a new part of himself._ "Helmdramon!"_

[Fin]_  
_


	6. Part One: Chapter VI

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter VI]

By T. D. Larson

His muscles tightened, twitched and relaxed, all with newfound strength. And suddenly, as a golden light enveloped him, he was taller, without the awkward clumsiness of his prior form. Even as a human he had never been as keenly balanced, and the exhilaration was as tangible as the ground he walked upon. Then, as he renamed himself, Helmdramon, Michael opened his eyes.

Time had stood still. There he was, a foot or less from Dinohyumon—the hostile Digimon charging at Isaac, sword aglow with furious energy and ready to cleave him in two. Only seconds remained to avert the tragedy. Cotramon's voice echoed from behind him, almost incomprehensible, distorted by some reverberated side effect from the transformation. Barely standing, the Digimon had caught the brunt of one of Dinohyumon's devastating blows, leaving Cotramon sputtering, trying to call for help.

Michael swung at the advancing Digimon, his fist ablaze. He felt heat, but it stubbornly refused to burn him. "_Nova Punch!_" He dived forward, leaping at Dinohyumon and releasing the pent-up energy in his arm. The flames arched from his fist, roaring to life as they left a scorch mark where his attack had collided with the other Digimon's jaw. The lizard-like Digimon spun once around from the force of the attack and then regained his balance, glaring menacingly.

The Digimon stood motionless, eyes fixed on the new digivolution. Michael caught his breath, hoping that it would sink into the Digimon that he was not willing to fight. He motioned for Isaac to leave, and caught him nodding out of the corner of his eye. The crowd had now formed a wide circle in the avenue leading to the palace complex, giving the two champion Digimon ample quarters to duke it out.

Cotramon stood breathing heavily to one side, Isaac next to him, trying to ease him down to a sitting position. Tank stood behind them, watching carefully—expectantly, Michael thought—to see what would happen next.

He turned just in time to see Dinohyumon lunging at him, sword at the ready, and narrowly missed the edge. Michael whirled out of the way a second time, leaping high as the blade came back for a second bite at his legs. He flipped once in the air, forcing all his strength into the downward turn. "_Blindside Inferno!_"

The concussive force sent Dinohyumon flying through the crowd, which barely managed to take flight from the impromptu missile. The Digimon careened into the same building which he had chipped away at before with a crash and an audible crack as several of his bones broke. The sword fell from his hand and he collapsed, leaving an eerie hush in his wake.

* * *

"Impressive…"

The hybrid had digivolved.

"Most impressive."

The report from their agent in Anshar had come in only moments ago, and Millenniumon had only had a brief moment to scan for details. He gathered the digivolution was powerful—a sure sign that he was indeed of the Master's blood—but it had been triggered by a human of all things. It puzzled him. They knew hardly anything of the hybrid, and less of the human world. Only now had it occurred to the Master that the humans might be just as easily conquered.

So there he brooded, the Black Diamond, his dark eyes scanning the report. Their agent had been detailed, and what once would have been a trickle of digi-code on the political climate was now three pages of comprehensive analysis on fighting technique, potential and records of any Digimon matching his description. So far, none of this came as any surprise to either the Master or Millenniumon. No one surprised them.

"Your initial supposition was correct. The union of those two bloodlines was indeed very powerful." The table before him contained a map, this time of Earth, the Human World. The prospects for conquest were ripe with possibilities. Their scattered governments, warring armies and their petty religious and political differences made them weak. But paired with the Digimon of the higher planes, an alliance would certainly spell disaster. "I must have him, or destroy him."

The Enemy turned to him, staring at him through dark eyes, almost unbearably black. They called him the Black Diamond for that reason. Millenniumon chanced a fleeting look into them and inwardly shuddered. A thousand deaths stared back, filled with bitter hatred.

"I do not think he will side with you," Millenniumon said, cautiously. He unconsciously took a step backward, feeling the wall against his back. He bowed deep, apologetically. The Enemy motioned for him to continue. Letting out a breath, he said, "His digivolution was triggered by a bond between him and that human interloper."

Yes, he thought, the one that fouled up their original plan. They would have been glad to let the Digimon destroy the hybrid—but no one had accounted for the slim chance that a human would successfully interpose himself. But it had opened up new avenues to both Millenniumon and the Digital World. A potential ally that could go either way—toward the Enemy or against him—had thrown the dynamics of the Enemy's plotting off kilter.

"I propose caution, Master. I would not destroy him so hastily." Therein he pinned his hopes. He would exercise care to give as much berth to the hybrid as possible, only subtly manipulating his actions, guiding him to where they needed. "See what fate awaits him with the Sovereignty first, Master."

"Do you propose that you know better than I do, Millenniumon?" The Enemy stood. Suddenly the room became immensely crowded, the massive presence of his master descending like a great shadow from the sky. "Remember," he said icily, "I see through you. I know your thoughts, your plotting and your futile hope ridding yourself of me. Nothing you do is secret to me. I allow you to continue existing only because a mind—even one as foolish as yours—is a terrible thing to waste."

* * *

Footsteps clattered up the corridor leading to Baihumon's chamber. The striped Digimon sat patiently on his hindquarters, waiting for the messenger to catch his breath long enough to speak. He bore the seal of the Emperor, pinned to his chest and emblazoned with gold.

Inwardly, Baihumon wondered what would be so important that the Emperor would send one of his personal messengers to him. Undoubtedly the others would be receiving similar communications of equal importance. It was only the contents of the message that were in question. The hybrid had arrived, he knew, along with a human witness to the exchange. He had seen to their safety personally. The Imperial Guard would assure a safe arrival to the palace.

And yet he sensed trepidation in the messenger before him. "What news do you bring?" he asked, beckoning the rookie to speak. The Digimon bowed, as was the custom, and greeted the Sovereign. "Skip the formalities and tell me what happened."

"He… he digivolved," the rookie panted. "After they landed in Anshar, they were attacked and the hybrid—he digivolved! The Emperor has summoned the Sovereign Council to Anshar to discuss the matter in person."

The tiger-ish Digimon sat silently, statuesque in his stillness. Then he grunted once and dismissed the messenger. "Tell the Emperor it shall be as he commands," he said. Minutes later he sat before the communications console, the large viewing screen illustrated with the faces of the other council members.

"This is highly irregular," Zhuqiaomon said. He did not like traveling, nor did he like leaving his territory unprotected. The others concurred with various grunts and assents. Baihumon would typically have agreed. But the situation was very unusual in itself. "More and more covert enemies are breaking through the seal. Leaving the planes without leadership would jeopardize the integrity of the Digital World."

"Normally I would agree with you," Baihumon replied. They had known the risks of tampering with the Clone Works, and it was their responsibility to deal with the consequences, good or bad. "Need I remind you, however, that the Emperor is not, in fact, requesting our presence, but commanding it."

"He is right," another voice broke in. Victory Greymon, a relative newcomer to the council, had been appointed by the Emperor himself in recognition for his personal valor. He was loyal to the Emperor—almost blindly so. "This meeting is not for debating that mandate, but for what we will advise."

Victory Greymon's eyes shifted under his helmet, looking as if he were personally staring down each council member. Many of the Sovereignty had resented his appointment, but Baihumon had to admit that the Emperor had chosen wisely. The Digimon had proven himself a stabilizing influence on a council that was often divided by petty differences of opinion. Even now, Baihumon could see him at work, subtly working his way around the Digital World's leadership.

"Whatever we decide," he said, and his eyes came to rest on Baihumon, "I propose we come to a complete consent as to what we will tell the Emperor. Now is not the time for pettiness." Several council members growled. That had been a personal jab at them—those who often took a diametrically opposed view to the Emperor.

Azulongmon protested the loudest. "We cannot consent to something we know nothing about. We must wait to _interview_ this creature before we can come to a decision. It is the only _sensible_ course of action." At least he had finally agreed to wait to see what the hybrid had to say. That had been a hard won victory. And many of the others agreed with him. It only made sense, the feline mega decided, and he added his approval as well.

The debate rambled on, back and forth, for another quarter of an hour before the council reached a consensus. Despite passionate arguments from Victory Greymon, the council would not prematurely advise the Emperor, one way or another. Were Boreamon to ask their advice before they had a chance to discuss the matter, they were each to give the same response: we must deliberate further.

At last the screen shut off and the communications line closed. Baihumon sighed. All of the political nonsense they had had to undertake since the Liberation War ended had taken a toll on them. Where once they had been mighty generals, the Sovereignty were now a mass of squabbling children. That had been the reason why Boreamon was made the Emperor: to provide strong, central leadership. But he had insisted on the council of the Sovereignty. Inwardly, Baihumon wondered how they had ever defeated the Enemy in the first place.

Leading an army seemed a lot simpler a task than leading a world. He had not even led an army. His role in the war had been simple. He fought, and bled, and fought some more. Of course, he remembered, he had been unique. It was with him that the war had begun, back in the mountains of Gaia, when he had only been a rookie slaving away in the Enemy's production lines.

He had heard legends of other worlds, of other creatures, passed down from generations that existed before the first Digimon Empire. Creatures not like them existed, and they held a power and a force within them that could make Digimon spontaneously digivolve. It intrigued him, and caused him to dream. Humans had come to the Digital World before—he knew this. He had known one of them.

What had brought him there, Baihumon had never discovered. But the result had been the beginning of a revolution. The first time they met, Baihumon had risked everything to save his life. And the results had been nothing short of a miracle. It had caused him—like it had caused the hybrid in Anshar—to evolve.

The mega padded around his chambers, thinking. When the full details of the battle in Anshar came through to him, he had known there was more to this hybrid than anyone of them had thought. No son of the Enemy would have risked his life for anyone. He stopped pacing, staring at a glass case in which a small device had been placed.

To many, it would merely have been a keepsake. But to him, it represented a bond that even death could not break. His human partner had passed away long ago—it had been many decades since the Liberation War. Over fifty years had passed, and humans, from the little he learned from his partner, were short-lived compared to the Digimon. But this device was the legacy of that partnership.

He wondered, could it save the Digital World now?

* * *

The walls of the palace had been immense—the sheer size of them putting to shame any of the ancient castles of human kings. Made of polished stone, they rose one hundred feet from the ground at their lowest point between bastions. The gates themselves had been made of the same sort of stone, encased in metal framework that struck the two visitors as not particularly strong. Digi-chrome, Cotramon had told them, had been used to reinforce the stonework. It was the strongest material available.

The slid open soundlessly and effortlessly, only the hum of some great motor underneath them giving any clue as to the real weight and size of the doors. It would have taken an entire artillery battery a hundred years to break through, he thought. No huge Digimon pulled at them, like they had at the outpost on the edge of the Digital World. This was civilization, and grand elegance, the likes of which no human had ever seen.

Inside was exactly what the two visitors expected. A large courtyard, crisscrossed with paths and gardens, fountains and statues, laid before them like a great green desert—a remarkable contrast to the true desert outside the city proper. Attached to the wall on the inside were outbuildings and dormitories, supply houses and storage. Digimon of various sizes shuffled from one to another, and guards patrolled the paths leading to the central building.

What had appeared to be a cluster of towers at the center of the city was actually one large tower, terraced to five different levels, with the observation platform at the apex of the highest spire. Tank led them to the nearest of the five wings, great stone cliffs, rising out of the earth, twice as high as wall itself. This, the escort told them, was the guest wing.

Two rooms had been set aside for them in the wing opposite the Emperor's suite in the palace complex. Isaac, though, had though the description of "room" had been a vast understatement. The hospitality of the Digimon Emperor had been nothing short of incredible. The Emperor had not been present at their arrival, but he had made provisions for them. Their escort, Tank, had been joined by three other guards, all with the same seal emblazoned on their armor.

After seeing that all three of them had been properly examined by a physician—though Cotramon had protested he would serve well enough in that capacity—their injuries had been seen to, and now Michael's hastily done bandages were properly washed, sterilized and dressed. Cotramon had also been seen to—he had been bruised badly, but suffered only minor damage. And Isaac had merely been made to be studied. Apparently, human anatomy had been of great interest to them.

Then it was onto their staterooms, which had actually been comprised of several rooms apiece. Lavatories, living rooms, private balconies and bedrooms had made up an apartment that would have made the richest of earthlings jealous. All of it had been handsomely appointed with furniture and fabrics that made the human feel as if he were in a dream. All of it was on a scale much larger than he was accustomed to, however.

Chairs that were designed for Digimon larger than Tank had been scattered about, and he had required a helping hand from the large Digimon just climb into one of the sofas. In the end, when he had mentioned the problem in passing, more Digimon came to remove them and replaced them with furniture more suitable for human proportions. Tank merely took several of the cushions and sat cross-legged whenever he felt the need.

"Why so much extravagance?" Isaac asked him, still trying to take in the vast dimensions of the room. He had pulled himself up a chair behind the mega and sat, watching over his shoulders, as he worked away at a computer terminal. Even the various monarchies of Earth would have paled in comparison to this.

Tank laughed once, deep and rumbling, as if the question were silly. "This palace was originally the Enemy's. It was designed as a fortress and a palace." It was so large though, he could hardly think of what use any one person, even a Digimon, could have for such a place. "During the war, this was his central point of operation. His generals, his leading scientific minds, and a complete garrison all resided within these walls."

"It must have been some war…" Isaac said softly. He had seen murals and statues in the corridors on his way through. Some depicted the city—he could recognize it only from the tower, prominently displayed in the center of each painting—in total ruin. Only the dominating sight of a black structure in the distance remained. Others were much less devastated scenes. One showed a city surrounded by plains with a high wall around it, as if it were a larger version of this very palace. "Was your entire world destroyed like that," he asked.

Tank stopped his clicking and turned to him. "Most of it," he said. "The two cities that faired the best were Ea Prime and Valhalla. Their locations were both of strategic importance, so the Enemy left them intact. When the rebellion swept through, the Sovereignty did the same." He turned back to the terminal and pulled up file. A picture of a Digimon came up, along with writing in the same language as the protestors' signs.

"Is that your language?" the human asked. Tank nodded silently, as if concentrating. Isaac almost thought to leave him be and explore the stateroom some more. There were several more rooms yet for him to peek at, and it was attached by a shared lobby to the other suite where Cotramon and Michael had been placed.

Still, he was curious about the black Digimon's dealings on the screen there. It looked as if it were some sort of index of various digital monsters. "That's precisely what it is," Tank told him, surprised. "You have a great gift of perception, especially for a human. This is a categorized list of all the known digivolutions we have compiled. Thousands of Digimon exist in this list."

"What are those, then," Isaac queried, point a finger at the lists and boxes next to the photograph. "It looks like a list of some sort. I noticed that the Digimon we've encountered all shouted a name before they attacked. It had something to do with their specific powers."

Tank smiled, nodding. "The words we speak are very powerful. It's true of all people, even humans. In your world, they can create history and shape the future. In the Digital World, they have a direct impact on the physical world around us. That's why Digimon have names that reflect them so perfectly—as you and I discussed earlier. When Digimon attack, they name them so because it directs the energies of the attack into a physical form."

Here the Digimon called up a picture of Cotramon. "I've been searching for Helmdramon, the evolution that Michael achieved. But so far I haven't been able to find it. I called up Cotramon as an example, though." Isaac saw the writing suddenly transform as Tank tapped another series of commands. Now it read in perfect English the Digimon's name.

"Digimon," Tank said, "come in varieties. Because we are partially evolved from computer data in your world, we have developed distinct attributes reflecting our strengths. Virus Digimon, like myself, are robust and adaptable. Data Digimon like Cotramon are also adaptable, but have greater speed in combat. You saw that before. And vaccine Digimon are the least susceptible to corrupted data."

It made sense, to a point. Cotramon had mentioned that Digimon were physical manifestations of computer data, but not anything else. And he had heard snippets of his conversation on Digimon evolution. The file called him a "rookie," and, despite the initial thought that it might be a reference to fighting ability, he guessed that was not so. Cotramon had not been a rookie by any stretch of the imagination—not if he was chosen specifically for _that _task.

The other boxes on the screen made much more sense. Types, attacks and elements, he gathered referred to exactly that. Cotramon was listed as a dragon type, and the attacks were the same that he heard the Digimon announce during his fight with Michael. And the element listed was one of the natural elements in mythology.

"So Digimon have a connection to the physical elements as well," he supposed. "Their attacks, when they announce them, give form to those elements." The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Michael had used two that referenced fire to some degree. Both of them had a potent effect.

Cotramon's file returned to the cue of scrolling names. None of the rest showed any resemblance to Helmdramon. "Have you tried running a reverse search?" Isaac asked after several minutes. "Search by his attack, or by his element or by his level. Or look for unknown Digimon that fit that description."

Tank eyed him for a second or two, as if the idea had been novel to him. "That could work. We know he was a champion level Digimon, with two attacks." The scrolling list stopped, and, after a two keystrokes, the language returned to digicode. Tank began typing.

* * *

A knock on the door broke Michael's concentration. He studied intently the mosaic patterns plastered over the walls. Intricate designs, stringed together like pearls, wreathed the washroom in bright colors. He thought he glimpsed the connection, but on a second and third look, it was lost to him again.

As he studied, he rested in a warm bath, his strength having left him. He had returned to his previous form, Pyromon, while being examined by the Emperor's physicians. Many of them were surprised to see his reptilian face, but they gave him no sign of hostility or fear. Michael was thankful for their professionalism. They had asked politely to take blood samples, examine his anatomy for comparison with a baseline human and Digimon counterpart. Then when they had finished, they gave him clothing, seeing that modesty was not as natural to him as full-blooded Digimon.

The cloths fit snugly, but comfortably, and his tail had, formerly confined to a small slit with fraying fabric and uncomfortable seams, swished lazily about, at ease with the rest of him. Once shown to their room, he had quickly found the washroom and taken them off to ease his tired, aching muscles into a hot soup of milky water.

The knocking became more insistent. He moaned, feeling the sting of myriad cuts and bruises and burns he had taken. He had taken great care to wash himself this time, not with the same haste or trepidation he felt at Isaac's home. Slowly, he rose out of the water and grabbed a towel he had set aside for himself, draping it around his midsection and tying it firmly in place.

"Michael?" Cotramon's baritone voice called softly. He waited for a reply. None came, and he opened the door. "Michael?" he asked again, not expecting a reply this time either. Was the hybrid still angry with him, or was he just not there? Steam rose out of the bath, obscuring the room in a thick haze. "I wanted to talk."

There… the Digimon breathed easier. A shape coalesced in the steam, defined itself, and became Michael. He wore the garments provided for him now. What a strange creature, the Digimon thought. Just that morning neither he nor Isaac had known anything about him. Cotramon had rarely ever kept allies close at hand, let alone true friends. He could count on his left claw how many people he had trusted in his life.

A paltry few.

Up until their arrival in Anshar, he would have still turned on the hybrid, given a reason. Even knowing he had to leave his family behind, Cotramon still had not been totally convinced. The contemptible idea that he would have still given over the hybrid only hours ago rankled his nerves. He had heard stories of humans performing great acts of self-sacrifice. Never had he seen it though. Many Digimon would not have done the same.

He supposed it had much to do with the fight with Dinohyumon. The quickness of his attacks had outmatched them both. Tank should have stepped in to stop the attack, yet he knew—somehow—that Michael would evolve. He should have seen it as well. The bond forming between him and Isaac had been growing since they met. And now he could feel it forming between him and the hybrid as well.

The trouble was, he was not sure he could handle that. Despite the growing admiration for him, and the lessening fear that he was the Enemy, Cotramon had reservations. A nagging suspicion in his mind plagued him, as if someone were hiding something. And it pointed to the hybrid in stark contrast to what he had observed. The Digimon was a slave to his own conditioning.

"Michael?" he said louder, a growl creeping into his voice. He needed to talk, to say something. What, he did not know. But now the hybrid had turned to him, and he looked uneasy himself. The growing self-anger deflated and Cotramon let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?" Michael looked at him quizzically.

"For forgiving my mistake…" came the reply. "…And for stopping that attack," he added hastily. He tried to sound commonplace, as if he were merely being polite. It sounded weak and artificial, and his bravado faltered and failed entirely. "The truth is I think the Sovereignty was wrong to anyone after you. You aren't the Enemy."

The puzzlement faded, and a twinge of anger flashed in Michael's eyes. Of course he was no enemy. He had tried to explain that countless times to him, and he only just got the point? Then again, what would he have done in Cotramon's place? "I told you so," he said, feeling the heated steam draw the ire out of his voice.

Michael had never been able to hold a grudge. At times, he felt physically incapable of it, as he had tried several times and had to give up. "It's okay," he decided. "I know you were just doing what you thought was right." Anger only made people more miserable. Right now he just wanted to rest. "Just remember to tell the Sovereignty that."

Cotramon gave him a fleeting smile. "I'll tell them tomorrow."

FIN


	7. Part One: Chapter VII

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter VII]

By T. D. Larson

Michael rested easily that night. The oversized bed and thick comforters enveloped his weary body and he sighed contentedly. It had been the first time in weeks where he had not been in constant pain. He remembered the pressure and aching leading to his initial transformation—the pounding in his head had been unbearable and nothing he had tried seemed to relieve the tension. Now, while still exhausted, he realized now just how much better he felt.

His wounds, properly dressed now, were only a dull pain in the back of his mind as he wondered about everything that had happened to him over the past twenty-four hours. Had it really only been one day? It felt like a lifetime. He had started to get used to the idea of being a Digimon. His natural equilibrium had adjusted with remarkable speed.

Michael felt like himself again.

He opened his eyes. The hybrid had been possessed of a keen sense of hearing as a human, and now he realized it had only gotten better as a Digimon. Something whispered outside his window, on the balcony that looked over the courtyard and the outer wall of the palace. He unwrapped himself from the blankets and tiptoed out to the balcony. Only the twinkling lights of the city and the lighted paths in the courtyard met him.

The heat from that day had melted quickly into a cool, breezy night. He took in the fresh air happily, a nice relief from the mud, dust and sand he had been through earlier. Whether it was the fresh air, or the two companions that had now started to think of as friends, he felt better. He wondered what his family would say when he saw them again. It would be nice to go home again, he thought.

He had often enjoyed summer nights like this, sitting out on the patio with a book and a cool drink. The boy had never had friends over, nor did he have many friends to invite over in the first place. He read his books and did his studies and kept to himself, and he had thought himself content with life.

He had never needed much. Computers, video games and the latest techno-babble to come out of the "all-you-can-save" computer outlet store had never interested him. The pop-singers and movie-stars ran the lives of his companions in the human world (he would not have called them friends except in the loosest definition). They read the dribble in the tabloid papers; he read substance.

A few stars twinkled above him. The light from the city prevented anything but the brightest in the sky to shine, and a waning gibbous moon hung over the palace, casting a pale peach light into the courtyard. None of it was familiar to him. No one told him what to expect, except pensive glances and hostile accusations.

"Admiring the view," a voice asked. Ten feet from him, on the balcony next door, loomed a menacing silhouette. A dim light in the background illuminated only the glossy edges of his armor, but Michael recognized Tank. "It's a nice night for reflection, isn't it?" the Digimon said.

The hybrid breathed in relief. He had almost thought it was another Digimon trying to kill him. "You startled me," he said, and then thought for a moment. "I was just thinking about home. After all that's happened, I don't know if I'll ever be able to return."

The mega's eyes flashed an acid yellow, luminescent in the watery light from below. "It's been a long time since I have been home as well." Michael nodded, not that he expected the Digimon to see it. He looked back to the stars, wondering if they were other planets or other dimensions, floating in an endless void. Tank looked up as well, drumming his claws on the railing next door. "Maybe you will return home," he said.

"How do you mean?" Michael asked, curiosity piqued by the sudden declaration. He could not possibly mean for him to go home. Life could never return to normal after this. He was branded, marked by this transformation. If the natives did not shoot him first, he would end up in a vat in some science lab.

Tank chuckled, almost as if he sensed the hybrid's thoughts. "No, I suppose you couldn't ever return to that life." He turned toward the boy and leaned onto the stone railing. "I don't know why you would want to, when there's a life of excitement and adventure waiting for you here. Or there, even. You could do anything you like."

He had always wanted to go somewhere, entertain himself, and do something exciting. But he had never gotten the chance until now. Usually he read of adventures, wondered what it would have been like to be there, and then shut his book. That was where it always ended. Now, though, maybe Tank _was_ right?

"Think about it," the Digimon told him. Michael could hear a smile in his voice. It sounded edgy, almost dangerous. Had that always been there, he wondered? It unnerved him. "The human world is ripe with possibilities for an enterprising Digimon like you. Humans can be easily swayed, I think. It makes me doubt their usefulness."

Usefulness? What was he talking about? Humans were not chattels to be shoved around like some sort of commodity. Isaac was a good man, and he had proven himself very useful in the past day. At least to Michael. Somehow, he thought, that was how he was able to digivolve. At least one of them was his friend.

"I don't think so," he replied, trying to hide his initial disgust. He made an attempt at dismissiveness, trying to turn the conversation somewhere else. "How come I never see any maps? Or if I do, they never include the other cities you mentioned—Ea, Gaia, Musplshiem… Where are they?"

The Black WarGreymon tilted his head, curiously at the hybrid. "They're on other planes—dimensions of the Digital World. Each is connected to the next like a string of pearls." He took the helmet from his head, revealing a broad, scarred muzzle in the moonlight. He had seen a lot of battles, Michael decided. "Do you suppose the humans will accept you back into their world?" he asked.

"I don't know," the hybrid replied. No, he decided. Not at first. But eventually, when they realized he was the same person as always, they would take him back. And Isaac would be there to help him. Cotramon—after getting to know him—would probably be just as welcome. While not exceptionally gifted in the arts of hospitality, his family did know how to make a stranger feel welcome.

"Of course they won't. The Sovereignty, once they find there's nothing wrong with you, will likely advise the Emperor that your world would make an excellent ally against the Enemy." Now he removed his armguards, laying them gently to the side and producing no noise. His arms were scared just as badly. Michael winced, imagining suddenly what might have caused so many wounds. "They would find earthlings meaningless allies. They have no fighting capability, and their land is stripped of resources already."

Michael grimaced. He did not like the turn their chat had taken. "That isn't true," he said, almost defensively. He sighed, and tried once more to redirect their conversation. "Where did you get so many scars? I don't mean to be rude, but they look painful."

Tank almost laughed. "Scars are a natural part of being a Digimon. You'll understand that soon enough." His chest armor came off next, revealing a loosely fitted shirt under a layer of padding. He discarded the padding also, and breathed deeply. "These came from the Liberation War. I once encountered the Enemy in personal combat."

"Who is he," Michael asked. Cotramon and the protesting Digimon had all said he was the son of this enemy of theirs. His partner had told him the story, but he still found it nearly impossible to believe, but for the fact that he stood there now transformed. "Cotramon told me that I'm his son. Is it true?"

"Yes and no," Tank said, white teeth glinting. "He is very powerful. Some say he's not a Digimon at all—some sort of demonic influence that crept over the Digital World and plunged our world into darkness." Something in his eye told Michael that they were not merely legends. "I was lucky to escape with my life. I bear these scars as testament to his power."

Michael blanched. The Black WarGreymon was a mega, Cotramon said. One of the most powerful citizens of the Digital World, he had not intervened in the battle with Dinohyumon for that reason. His powers might have caused serious collateral damage—and not just to the surrounding buildings. And this enemy had throttled him, leaving him barely alive. What kind of monster was he?

What kind of monster was Michael? Suddenly he understood the hostility, the barefaced hatred that had overwhelmed outside of the airfield. What if he were to turn out like that tyrant? If it were true, and he digivolved into something like that, he could well see disaster for both worlds. Then another thought struck him. It was not just the Enemy who had contributed to his bloodline, Cotramon said.

"Who was Pyromon, then?" he questioned, drawing a surprised look from the dark Digimon. "Cotramon said he was some sort of war hero—something about saving lives. I never got the whole story from him. I look like him, right?"

Tank nodded slowly. "Partially. He was a beast Digimon. Your human lineage made you a human-shaped Digimon. But the resemblance _is_ uncanny." He smiled again. Somehow, Michael concluded, it looked as battle-scarred as the rest of him. But for reasons he could not fathom, it had a different quality to it—practiced, fake, like a veneer that had been worn to the bone. "He died preventing an attack on a field hospital. Pyromon had been dealt a serious injury and was a patient there when Apocalymon, the Destroyer of Worlds attacked."

Apocalymon? The Destroyer of Worlds? Was that the Enemy? "Who is Apocalymon?" he asked, glancing down at the paths below. A few Digimon scurried about, bringing supplies in from the outbuildings, preparing for the next day. "Why was he called the Destroyer of Worlds?" It sounded almost prophetic.

"Great gods!" Tank laughed, grinning broadly. "You really don't know any history, do you? Not from this world at least!" He slapped his knee once, chortling at Michael's ignorance. He calmed himself after a few last deep breaths to steady himself. "Apocalymon was the Enemy's chief tactician, and a brutal warrior. When he attacked the hospital, Pyromon took it upon himself to digivolve to his highest level to fend him off while the patients were evacuated. He was killed in the process, but never forgotten."

He digivolved? Another battle, in another time, apparently. Cotramon, he sensed, had been there. After all, he said he was a medic. Michael shook his head. That was why he had been so angry—almost psychotic with rage. What an insult that would have been. It seemed nothing was going right for him.

"Cotramon is a good man too," he said reflectively.

"I always did have a soft spot for Pyromon," Cotramon said from behind him. Michael turned, embarrassed. "What are you doing up? You need to sleep, Michael." He knew the Sovereignty was going to test him. He knew it was going to be much more than just a few questions. This was going to take a physical toll on him tomorrow as well. "I heard you talking. Now what are you thinking being up at his hour?"

"Just needed some air is all," he answered. "Tank and I were talking…" he trailed off, turning to the other balcony. The armor and the Digimon had vanished—not even his ghostly silhouette stood in the backdrop. "He was there a minute ago."

Cotramon leaned out over the balcony, seeing nothing as well. "As far as I know, he's been working on his report to the Sovereignty." Perhaps it the stress had caused him to imagine things. He had heard the hybrid talking, but no replies, as if he were talking to himself. "Having a little midnight crisis, eh?"

He had only caught the last details of the one-sided exchange. If Michael were still unsure of himself, why not talk to him? Cotramon could help as easily as anyone else—probably better. After all, he had known Pyromon—at least in passing—being present at that hospital. The Digimon had saved him. Michael should have asked.

"I don't know what was going on out here, but I could tell you that story," he said. Perhaps he was unsure of Cotramon—still. He would not blame him if it were the case. "It started about twenty years ago," he started.

"Tank told me the story," Michael cut him off. "You were a medic, and Apocalymon came to destroy the place. Pyromon digivolved and sacrificed himself to save everyone." The exact details were still a mystery to him, but he at least knew the story. It should have been proof enough that someone had been out there talking to him. He was tired, but far from delusional. These were not the hallucinations that Cotramon took them for.

The Digimon assented. Yes, that had been proof enough for him. Cotramon had never disclosed the story—only mentioned it passing. So who would have been out here? Hold it—what was that? The Digimon craned his head toward the night sky. Faintly, the beating of wings reached his ears and he growled once. Michael had gone silent as well, also straining his ears to hear the belligerent, intrusive sound.

He was a dark Digimon himself. Cotramon could see better at night because of it. And his eyes shortly picked out a black form against the deep velvet sky. Four wings and four red eyes glared back at him maliciously. "I see it," he murmured, holding a claw up. There was a crimson flash, and suddenly half the terrace on which they stood exploded into stone shrapnel. "Devidramon…"

"_Crimson Claw._" Another flare, and this time the flourish of his claws was visible to both Digimon. Both of them dodged the attack in time to watch the rest of the veranda shatter. Cotramon was the first to regain his wits and launched a fireball. It struck the dark dragon square in the chest, leaving scorched scales. "_Crimson Claw._"

"_Phantom Claw!_" he shouted once, leaping with all his strength upward, and catching the low flying attacker with his own razor-sharp points. An alarm sounded deep within the palace and a troupe of Digimon below scrambled to take up positions to combat the intruder. Tank stood motionless, watching once more the battle unfold. Isaac took refuge behind him.

Devidramon swatted the attack away. He was fast. Far too fast for a Devidramon, Cotramon decided. Something was disturbingly different about him. He attacked again, sending another fireball careening into the enemy's chest. Still it kept coming, taking aim again at the room where Michael stood.

"Michael! Get out of the way!" He was after the hybrid… not another protesting Digimon, but an assassin. He had seen them before; they were the agents of the Enemy, their wills crushed and their minds turned to mush. They lived only in the biological sense, with no personality or minds of their own, completely under the Enemy's control. "He's after you!"

The hybrid heard him, but still did not move. The Devidramon dived at him, his claws gleaming darkly. "_Crimson Claw._" At the last moment, Michael leapt to one side, using the ruined arch of the doorway as a springboard and flung himself at the Digimon.

"_Dynamite Rush!_" He tucked himself into a ball and walloped Devidramon, knocking him off course and sending him crashing into the floor below. A salvo of other attacks rose from the courtyard, enveloping the dragon in burning fire. Michael sprung off the dragon's muzzle as it crashed, landing back on the floor of their room.

"That won't help!" Cotramon shouted from above. "That thing doesn't feel pain, and has no will other than to destroy you!" The guards below should have known better. The bloodied Devidramon picked itself up, mindlessly ignoring the barrage of attacks from the courtyard. Its eyes focused on Michael, the hybrid staring in shocked awe of how much damage it had sustained. "Michael!"

"_Crimson Claw._"

"_Phantom Claw!_" He dove onto its back, piercing its ebon hide. "_Blazing Fire!_" Cotramon roared, pelting it with attack after attack. He gripped the monster and tore at its wings before he felt a crushing grip around his neck and his still aching ribs. How could he have been so stupid! The tail, he thought, struggling for breath. "Michael…" he gasped.

No, not again, Michael thought. He had seen this twice already today, and now he was forced to watch it over again, as another friend face destruction in the glare of a mindless minion of a faceless enemy. He tried to digivolve, but the same heat and exhilaration he felt before never came. He felt cold, afraid. Cotramon had stopped its attack, succeeded in distracting the monster. But now he was going to pay for it. The Digimon was indeed a good man.

"Cotramon! You can digivolve!"

His lungs burned and his head swam as he held on relentlessly to the black dragon. Faintly he heard Michael's voice, calling to him. He had to protect him, somehow. If only to make up for his earlier mistakes, he had to protect the hybrid. It was his duty—he had made a promise. "_Cotramon digivolve to…_" His grip tightened and he gritted his teeth as the tail around his body also increased its strain. He could not lose.

Michael looked at him intently and let out a roar of his own, feeling the excitement and power radiating from the newly digivolved champion. His limbs were longer, and his scales had turned a deep forest shade of green. A golden mane, close cropped to his scaly head fluttered in the breeze and a quiver of arrows hung to his back.

"_Huntmon!_" Cotramon opened his eyes and realized he was no longer a rookie. He relaxed his grip, feeling himself flung to and fro by the attacking champion's tail. He grabbed it, vice-like and heard a shriek as the first hint of pain registered in the Devidramon's tiny mind. The hold on him slackened and he reversed their momentum, swinging the dragon into the open air. A deluge of attacks hit him at once, sending him spiraling into the ground below. Slowly, he dragged himself back to his feet, this time setting his eyes on Huntmon.

"Fight me instead," he said to the dragon. Devidramon launched himself forward, claws outstretched. Huntmon closed his eyes and let out a breath. "_Shadow Game!_" A moment later he disappeared and the dark Digimon struck thin air. "You missed!" he shouted, pulling an arrow from his quiver. A bow formed in his hands, ebon black as the obsidian head of the missile. "_Phantom Arrowhead!_" The point shone a deep violet as he drew the bow. Then he released it, sending it screaming through the night, piercing the Devidramon.

The monster crumpled, clutching the wound in his chest, smashing into the ground. It shrieked, the last vestiges of his mind trying to grasp the sudden, painful release from the Enemy's control. Then, to the shock of both Isaac and Michael, it disintegrated. Nothing but the rubble caused by its attack, and a faint echo of its screeching cry remained.

* * *

The convoys had arrived late that evening, accompanying each of the Sovereignty from around the Digital World. Baihumon stepped out into the night air, weary of traveling, ready for a rest. If the journey from Valhalla were any indication, the next day would be even more taxing. His caravan had joined two others on the desert path into Anshar; that belonging to Azulongmon had been the largest. Victory Greymon had joined them as well, with a procession of only himself and two guards.

Humility was a quality the older council members sometimes lacked. He regretted his own choice at that thought, wondering why it was necessary to announce their presence so loudly. Azulongmon had harrumphed at his self-admonishment. They had earned it, he said, leading the Digital World to freedom. Baihumon was not so sure.

At the Emperor's orders, however, Anshar had not greeted them as a city. Only a small contingent of the Imperial Guard met them at the city gates to escort them to the palace. In transit, the tiger Sovereign had asked the reason for this, as the Emperor nearly always extended prolific greetings upon his guests.

"The palace was attacked earlier this evening, sir," one of the guards informed him. "The Emperor is safe, and the attack did only minor damage to the guest wing of the complex." The guest wing, he said? Logically, then, the Emperor was not the target. He asked who was staying there. "They hybrid and his companions, sir."

"So someone else had the same idea," Azulongmon growled.

"We believe it was an agent of the Enemy," the guard replied, addressing the dragon mega. That took them both by surprise. Only Victory Greymon seemed to take the news without any indication of shock. "There was no way to tell how he got here, only that he was an agent. The garrison stationed there said he took their most powerful attacks and didn't flinch."

Baihumon eyed the other Sovereign for reactions. Victory Greymon remained calm, as ever, taking in the news with analytical patience. Azulongmon, to the contrast, looked livid. His pale, scaled face was paler than usual, and his long beard twitched irritably. It proved his theory wrong, the tiger realized with some relief. If the Enemy was willing to destroy him, then there it was likely that the hybrid would side with the Empire.

"There's more, sir," the same guard interrupted, breaking the mega Digimon's concentration. Baihumon glanced down at him and beckoned him to speak. Any information would prove valuable in their interrogation tomorrow. But it seemed to him that it might only be a formality now. "Cotramon also digivolved."

Ah! So that was the trepidation he had observed in Azulongmon. He must have found out sooner than he, with all the communications equipment he lugged along with him. Those who had known the humans of the Liberation War knew. This was not just a spontaneous evolution. Something incredible had happened, and whether or not they wanted it, the humans were now inextricably a part of their lives.

FIN


	8. Part One: Chapter VIII

**Digital War: Campaign II**

**Part One: First Contact**

[Chapter VIII]

By T. D. Larson

The eyes of the universe peered down on him. They were inquisitive, judgmental and overwhelmingly huge. Michael wished the others were with him now. But the Sovereignty had prohibited them from standing together until after they conducted the initial interviews. Three of the eight Sovereigns surrounded him, the imposing auras of just the three driving his senses into the ground.

In the back of his mind, he remembered Cotramon's words that it would take effort to make it through this in one piece. The largest of them was a serpentine dragon surrounded by chains and a flowing white mane; he glared at Michael through icy blue eyes. If only judging by the stony cordiality alone, the hybrid would guess he had made an enemy. Azulongmon, he had called himself. He spoke with a command and clearness of intent that seemed military in nature. But that was what he should have expected.

The other two were much less inimical to him. Baihumon, who had shown great interest in his life on earth, was almost friendly. Only his visage, two monstrous fangs and a spiked collar, gave Michael pause. His resemblance to something as earth-like as a tiger almost comforted him, but for the fact that he was clearly not from Earth.

Baihumon asked very specific questions of him. What had he done before coming to the Digital World? Did he ever have any contact with the Enemy? Michael had hastily answered no to that question. Baihumon had cast a reproachful stare at Azulongmon at that point. There must have been some disagreement about him within the council. Inwardly, he was reassured. It had sounded, at first, as if all of them had wanted his head on a platter.

What did he think of the Digital World? It was beautiful, from what little he had seen of it. How had he digivolved, the third Sovereign asked him. She looked nearly human, and stood only a head taller than him. Rosemon, she had introduced herself as, bowing gracefully and wrapping a leafy cape about her.

At this point the other two, previously locked in a silent debate, scrutinized him once more. He told them the story, beginning with the onset of his transformation, more than a month ago. No one in that time had thought anything of it, just that he had been sick with a prolonged illness. No Digimon had come to him, had asked him any questions or made any propositions to him, as Azulongmon had assumed. Only the tightness in his stomach and the constant pounding in his skull had alerted him to anything abnormal.

What was his human family like, Baihumon had asked. They were fine, hardworking people, Michael replied. His father worked at the local manufacturing plant, and his mother worked from home as a sales representative. He was an only child. No, they had never suspected that he was anything other than human. Neither had he.

And Cotramon? Well, he explained, that had been a wonderful afternoon. The sarcasm shocked the three of them, none of them expecting such harsh criticism. That was what they deserved for that blunder, at the very least. No, he was normally a pacifist. What right had they to mess with his life anyway? He waited impatiently for their justification.

"You drew me into this," he said. "Not the other way around." He looked each of them in the eye, daring them to deny it. They could not have predicted the results of their actions, he knew. But if it had not been for their meddling in the first place, he might have turned out normal. "What gives you the right to play god anyway? Who said it was okay for you try and make a Digimon?"

Azulongmon snapped his jaw shut and brought a claw alarmingly close to Michael. "We are the Sovereignty," he said indignantly. "We led the fight against the Enemy, _your_ father. You cannot possibly comprehend the damage that was done and the number of lives lost to liberate our world. We owe you no explanation!"

"I beg to differ, Azulongmon," Baihumon told him. "The hybrid is right. We dabbled in a power that was far greater than us, that we could not hope to understand. In that, we took the life of an ordinary human and made him thus." He gestured to Michael. Just what would they have done if their machinations had been successful?

Rosemon sat silent for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes," she said, seemingly picking up Baihumon's train of thought. "We would likely have manufactured more and more of them until we had risen an army of our own."

Michael flashed the other two a smile before turning back to the dragon. "Then you would have been no better than the Enemy. What makes you morally superior to any other dictator, tyrant or politician?" he demanded. "Especially when you can't even justify your actions to yourself!"

"That's enough out of you!" Azulongmon roared.

Michael's head swam and his ears rang from the deafening bellow. But he stood his ground, staring defiantly up at the Sovereign Digimon. "You can't, and you know it! And when you knew you had made a mistake, you tried to cover it up by sending someone to kill me. How brave of you! What a joke…" He felt the low rumble of the dragon's growl rise out of the floor and into his feet.

He had to wonder what the purpose of all this was in the first place. If they were going to execute him, they might as well get it over with. Only a few humans might miss him. And his two partners, he thought solemnly. Certainly, Cotramon would be the only Digimon to think of him afterwards. "Why don't you just get it over with," he asked. "You've made up your minds already."

A sharp yelp to his left and an alto chuckle from behind alerted him to the laughter of the two other Sovereigns. Azulongmon did not share their mirth, and by Michael's estimation, looked ready to carry out that sentence. "I have only one more question," Baihumon told him. "Knowing what you know now, would you change the past? Would you have come on this adventure?"

He stood motionless, quiet in contemplation. Michael had already admitted to himself that he was never comfortable in his own skin. After the first pains of evolving, and then the exhilaration of digivolving into Helmdramon, he wondered if it were because he had subconsciously known that he was somehow different. It felt right now. He had adapted so quickly to the changes. Now he could walk with perfect balance—and much more, to his surprise.

Then there were those two: Isaac and Cotramon. Who would he kid if he lied? Somehow, in only knowing them for a few hours, he had come to the conclusion that both of them were worth what had happened. They fought for him, would have died for him. And he, inexplicably, would have done the same. "Adventures are rarely safe," he said at last. "I don't think I would change anything so far."

* * *

"It's possible you can be of help to us," one of the Sovereigns said. Of the two present, he was the smaller, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Tank, who stood behind and to the left of Isaac. Victory Greymon had offered him a seat on a large cushion and some refreshment. Isaac took it politely and nibbled at it, not sure if Digimon food was fit for his consumption.

"How do you suppose," he asked, replacing whatever it was he had taken. The other Digimon was a veritable giant. The tortious Digimon spoke out of one mouth, and finished with another attached to a separate head. He tried not to look at him, unnerved by the strangeness. "I don't know how one human could be of any help to you."

Tank smiled under his helmet. "Your assistance to me in writing my report was invaluable. As you saw, our database was grossly inadequate to suit our needs. It was a total mess, to barrow a human phrase."

"More than that," Ebonwumon started, "we have heard of your involvement in the hybrid's digivolution." There was not that much involvement, as far as he was concerned. All he had done was get in the way. "We've seen this sort of bond before, a long time ago. It is unique," the second head finished.

"Precisely my thoughts," Victory Greymon agreed. "Tell us what happened, in your own words." In his own words? Isaac hardly remembered it. He had not actually thought about it until after the deed was done. But he told them the story, from his perspective. How many Digimon were present? He did not count. Were they hostile toward just the hybrid or to him as well? Both, by his reckoning—Dinohyumon had aimed at him specifically the first time.

Would he have made the same decision twice?

"Yes, definitely."

* * *

Cotramon knew the protocol as well as anyone. He bowed, greeted them each in turn, and asked how he might be of service to the Empire. Zhuqaiomon told him to stow it. Metal Seadramon and Ancient Garurumon had given their consent as well, much to the rookie's relief. They were not as pompous as some of the others. He had gotten to know the phoenix before. That Digimon stood on his own merits, not on the perceived notion that his rank entitled him to certain treatment. He was the respectable sort, if argumentative.

Still, somehow he hated to dispose of the protocol entirely. He respected these individuals. Their bravery in the face of the Enemy had saved the Digital World. But it would be as they wished it.

Zhuqaiomon looked down at him, his red eyes shining. Cotramon suspected he shared Azulongmon's opinion of Michael and the human world, if not his total xenophobia. These three maintained that a strong self-reliance would ensure their survival. He listened carefully while the rookie gave his own account of what had happened, as did the others.

"And that's the way it was," he finished.

"I see," was all any of them had said. He had hoped to gauge their reactions, that they might question him on more specific details, so that he might offer some explanation of his actions. The sense of aggravation was palpable, almost as if the Sovereigns were asking how he dared think for himself.

They did give him a specific mission, Cotramon mused. He had failed to carry it out, and in fact did the exact opposite as to what they had intended. A startling sense of shame rose up within him. He had failed them. All the work, the effort and the time spent training and preparing himself had gone to waste. He saw it in their eyes and shrunk back from it.

But wait! The Emperor had chosen him specifically for his ability to analyze and adapt to changing conditions. He had done that. What more justification did he need than the Emperor's word? He sighed inwardly, chastising himself. A soft growl escaped his lips and caught himself looking over his shoulder, as if Michael would be there. Be there for what, he wondered? The hybrid had been there for him that morning, making sure he would be victorious. That was more proof he had done the right thing.

He hoped that Michael was well at the moment. Cotramon had expected the three of them to be interviewed as a whole, not separated. Of course, he knew the reasons behind their isolation—that they might corroborate the three stories. But, and he shuddered involuntarily, Michael was in the presence of the single most callous Digimon in the Empire. Of all of the Sovereignty, Azulongmon alone was possessed of a hatred bordering on fanatical.

The only comfort the rookie could take was that Baihumon was there as well. As the single greatest supporter of this experiment, he would be sure that Michael would be heard properly, and not hung before his trial had begun.

His trial? At first it seemed only a metaphor, but as he looked closely, Cotramon could see a certain hint of truth to that analogy. Michael was fighting for his life in that chamber. He and Isaac had it comparatively easy in that he would be stripped of his rank and Isaac merely sent home. But the hybrid, if they found his motives questionable, would be utterly destroyed.

More and more, he found himself wishing he could be there for support. Soon, he reminded himself, the interviews would be over and they would be brought together before the entire council. Then, only one thing remained. While they waited, watched and worried, the Sovereignty would deliberate. And then it would be decision day.

Two possibilities remained after that; the hybrid would be executed, or he would be allowed to live. However—and he thought about his own time away from family and friends—the probability of him being a prisoner of the Digital World remained none-to-appealing. Cotramon's sojourn to the human world had taken merely days, his training and preparation only a handful of weeks. He would be happy to return to his family in Kishar once this was all over. He had not been permitted to send even a letter to them about his mission or what sorts of things he had undergone in his training.

He wondered if the hybrid would be permitted to contact his family. Surely the Sovereignty had enough honor remaining in the complacent bodies to indulge in that one kindness. But the looks on their faces, and the grumbling, deliberate use of their native language, suggested otherwise.

"You are dismissed," Zhuqaiomon said at length. Cotramon sighed. He had done his best. Now it was up to fate. He turned to leave. "Be back here in one hour with the hybrid and his companion. We will have made our decision by then."

* * *

The rubble had been cleared by dawn. Reconstruction had already begun on the guest wing of the palace and scaffolding rising hundreds of feet into the air glistened in the bright sunlight. Michael sat near the edge of the guest wing's garden, on a bench next to an artificial lake, admiring the cool breeze coming stirring from it.

His escort, a Digimon assigned to him by the Sovereignty, stood guard close by, eyeing him suspiciously. He had been asked politely if there were any places he would like to see in the palace—bearing in mind of course certain parts were off limits except by invitation from the Emperor. He suggested a walk outside might do him some good.

The interview had taken place in a tremendous chamber, accommodating the three great Digimon. But despite its size and grandeur, the presence of the megas and the hostile and guarded nature of the questions had stifled him, nearly suffocating the hybrid. He wanted to clear his head. Thankfully, his guard had permitted it.

Michael had tried striking up a conversation with the Digimon, but to no avail. He had tried speaking to any number of Digimon he had crossed paths with. Most gave him a wayward glance and moved on. Some had given him a properly polite response, but nothing more. He had ended up walking only a fifth of the way around the palace, finally stopping at the bench where he now sat, pondering.

He would be taken back shortly to face their decision. He had done his best. And he felt confident that Isaac and Cotramon had done theirs as well. Their questions seemed odd in retrospect, though. It seemed that more than just his future depended on the outcome of their deliberations. Judging by Baihumon's line of questions, it seemed as if Earth itself might be caught in the crossfire.

An ear twitched. He heard shouting; it was Isaac. The human waved to him, puffing his away along the garden path, out of breath. "We've been looking for you," he called, approaching. Tank was right behind him, keeping up with long, even strides. "How did the interview go?"

He looked in good spirits. His must have gone well, Michael decided. "It could have gone better, I think. But at least one of the Sovereignty is willing to leave me be." He motioned for Isaac to take a seat, and the out-of-breath human did so gladly. "Baihumon was very interested in our world," he informed his partner.

"I think most of the Sovereigns are willing to let you go," Isaac replied. Ebonwumon had nearly said so. Victory Greymon was inclined to agree. Tank had been a tremendous help in assuring their success. But he had yet to hear from Cotramon. "They were very friendly towards me. But then again, I'm not the one on trial either."

Tank approached them as well, relieving the guard who had been tailing Michael. "Don't thank me, human. Your suggestions to improve our database helped win them over. I was able to place the proper information into the index to give both Helmdramon and Huntmon proper status as recognized species of Digimon."

"Index?" Michael asked, directing the question to Isaac.

The Black WarGreymon bothered him. His presence, ever since they had talked on the balcony, had been a stink to him. It felt black as pitch, like something had taken his spirit and left only an empty husk of a man. By all accounts, he could not justify his position, except by the content of his questions toward the hybrid. Until he could be sure, he wanted to keep his distance from the black Digimon.

"It's a sort of digi-dex," Isaac replied. "A compendium of all known species of Digimon. Tank let me snoop around a bit last night. There are hundreds of thousands of Digimon listed there," he informed Michael excitedly. "Some are unique, like you. Others, not so much—like Tank here is a common species."

"But an uncommon man," the mega retorted, chuckling.

Isaac shared his laughter, but Michael found it hollow. "Right," he said, trailing off. He tried to smile, reassuring the quizzical look on his human partner's face. "So what did it have to say about me," he asked. "Super amazing Digimon powers, right?"

"Nothing like that," Isaac told him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a printed sheet of paper. Written on it were a few printed lines of information and a photo of him. "Tank explained it this way: In addition to the digivolutions, Digimon are classified into types of species and attributes. You're a humanoid type Digimon, and are classified as having the data attribute. The rest of the information defines your level and the two attacks you can use."

"Yes," he remembered. "And the third part of our little trio?"

"A beast Digimon," the human said, pulling out a second sheet. "According to the time stamp, he was only recently added—just a few months ago, in fact. Also has the data attribute. And, of course," he continued, laying a finger softly on Michael's bandaged arm, "we know his attacks."

That he did. But speak of the devil, where was the Digimon, Michael wondered. He would have thought Cotramon would have joined them already, if he were out of his own interrogation, that is. But the scaly green monster was nowhere in sight. Isaac had not seen him, and Tank could give no answer. Wherever he was, Cotramon was sure to be in a darker mood than any of them.

Still, Tank reminded them, they had an appointment to keep. They could not afford to waste time speculating on their partner's whereabouts. Cotramon would be there, Tank assured them. Isaac agreed, and Michael knew it as well. He was trained to obey their authority. And the Sovereignty detested lateness, in any case. They should be moving along, lest they keep the council waiting.

* * *

Michael felt a curious sensation of fear mixed with eagerness and reluctant resignation. At one point, as he approached the doors to the great chamber, he felt quite ready to hear their decision. A moment later he wanted to shrink back and run away. Stand your ground, he told himself firmly. He had no reason to fear them. He shook his head. He had every reason. They held his life in their hands. Only a fool would not be afraid.

At least this time he was not alone. Isaac stood next to him at the threshold, clasping his shoulder in a firm grip. It steadied the hybrid's frazzled nerves, and he willed his tail to stop twitching in agitation. He looked at his human partner.

"I won't let them do it," Isaac stated.

If it came down to it, Michael had no doubt the human would risk his life to defend him. He could not ask that, though. He had to face what was coming, good or bad. Now he heard footsteps along the marbled floor. Cotramon drew near, face solemn, and he too put a firm grip on his other shoulder. He was glad that he was not alone this time.

"Are you ready," the Digimon asked him.

"As I'll ever be."

The massive doors swung open, revealing the broad cavity that the Sovereignty had selected for this engagement. It only just accommodated them. They formed a circle around spotlighted area in the middle, undoubtedly where they would face judgment. The only room larger, Cotramon whispered, would have been the throne room in the central tower. They might yet see that room as well.

All at once Michael felt overwhelmed by the huge Digimon. His tail began twitching again and his knees shook. He was sure they could smell the fear emanating from him like a bad odor. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his muzzle. He wiped it away and tried to swallow. His tongue was shoe leather.

He felt the grip from Isaac's hand get tighter. He was nervous too, Michael realized, and was doing his best not to show it. The thought brought him some comfort. But the human needed reassuring too, he decided. He had to support his partners like they now supported him. "Don't be scared," he whispered, wrapping his tail around Isaac and squeezing once. "You're a good man, and they wouldn't dare harm a good man."

"It isn't me I'm worried about," he murmured back.

Then they were there, in the center of the great hall, the eyes of the universe fixed upon them. Cotramon shushed the two visitors, but tried to give them an encouraging smile. Tank had not entered with them, Michael realized. A loud bang informed him that the doors had been shut, and to his alarm, locked from within. He gulped once.

"Stand and be heard," Victory Greymon intoned. "You stand before us, hybrid, accused of crimes against the Empire and the Digital World." The other megas remained silent, listening intently. "This council has convened to review the evidence in this case. We have listened to your testimony, and the accounts of the two relevant witnesses."

There he paused. This was it, Michael knew: decision time. His heart pounded in his chest and throbbed in his ears. The Sovereignty must of heard it—they stared at him intently, unblinking, almost statues. He wanted to shout, to scream at them, get on with it! The urge to run hit him, then to fight his way out.

No! Stand your ground. You are not a coward, and you have done nothing wrong. He felt the clasping hands on his body grow tighter still. They were there. And they would not let anything happen. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Try to keep calm, he told himself. He took another, and then raised his head to meet eyes with the Sovereign directly in front of him, Azulongmon.

"It is the decision of this council," Azulongmon began, "that you are to be brought before the Emperor with the recommendation that you…" Michael cringed, feeling the animosity like a knife in his flesh. "…That you be allowed to keep your life."

What was that? Had he heard correctly?

"Upon corroborating your stories, we have determined that you are not, in fact, a threat to our world," Baihumon stated. "Your spontaneous digivolution and subsequent brawl in the streets was the result of an unprovoked attack upon your human partner, which you defended with honor. The damage from the battle last night was likewise caused by an unprovoked attack which your Digimon partner ended."

He had heard them right!

"However," and the growl from Azulongmon bordered on dangerous. "Upon final approval of our decision, you will hereby be a permanent resident of the Digital World." Where they could keep an eye on him, the Digimon's expression read. "You will be granted citizenship and the rights and responsibilities thereof. But you may never again return to the Human World, or make contact with its citizens."

"That isn't fair!" The locked eyes of the draconic mega flashed angrily as they turned to Isaac. "You can't deprive him of his home! What are you so scared of?" Even Michael tried to shush him. The other Sovereigns looked on calmly, only a hint of surprise on their various faces. "What about his family? What about our friendship? I'm his partner!"

Azulongmon flushed under his silvery scales. "This is our decision," he roared, instantly silencing the human. "Barring the Emperor's decision, it is final. We uphold the laws of this land and its security, something which a puny specimen like you cannot possibly comprehend. You have been shown a great deal of latitude, human. But I suggest you do not try my patience any futher." He barked once and the gate to the outside corridor opened, signaling an end to the proceedings.

FIN


End file.
